


Such a Life, a Heart, a Mind as Thine

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Guilt, M/M, Magic, Magic Makes Them Do It, Non Consensual, Rape, Romance, Soul Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-14 09:00:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 42,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/835089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><div class="center">
  <p> </p>
  <p>    <img/><br/>  </p>
</div>In which Arthur inadvertently triggers an ancient magic, but he does not face the consequences alone.
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> (Takes place in season 2, sometime between "Lancelot and Guinevere" and "The Witch's Quickening".)
> 
> Title from Tennyson's _Idylls of the King_.

Arthur knows, as surely as anything, that if Merlin were here he would be admonishing Arthur to stay away from the altar. He can all too easily conjure the insubordinate tones in his mind. ' _Sire, maybe you shouldn't_ ,' and, ' _I don't think we ought to be here_.' Merlin would reach for him, urging him to halt his steps, heedless of any impropriety in touching the crown prince out of turn.

Arthur is surprised at how acutely he feels Merlin's absence. It's ridiculous, of course; he hardly needs his manservant to accompany him on every insignificant patrol. 

But the ruin he and his knights have stumbled into is an oddity, one he can't fathom he's failed to notice in all the times he's traversed the countryside surrounding Camelot. Capable as his knights are of investigating strange occurrences, Arthur finds himself wishing Merlin were here simply to share his confusion.

These crumbling walls should not be here. Arthur has ridden the same route on patrol hundreds of times, and he wonders that he could ever have missed this age-riddled wreck of a keep.

His footsteps now carry him across uneven stone, shadows and sunlight alternating as he crosses the wide floor. A fragmented vault stretches high above, a patchwork of arches and open sky. The altar before him is built of the same dark stone as the walls, though even from this distance Arthur can see that it hasn't deteriorated the way everything else has done. 

The altar stands strong and pristine, and even without Merlin at his side Arthur knows it is very, very wrong.

Something glints atop the altar, and it is towards this metallic glimmer that Arthur moves, curiosity outweighing the voice of caution (still Merlin's voice) in his head.

The floor itself smoothes gradually as Arthur closes on the altar, until it is perfectly even beneath his feet. The stones have been patterned to form a perfect circle, and Arthur hesitates at the periphery. When he steps forward, a tangible jolt courses along his spine, and he tells himself to turn back; he knows a warning when he feels it winding along his skin.

But despite his own admonitions—despite Merlin's imagined voice railing at him to stop being an idiot—Arthur's feet carry him forward instead of back. Farther into the circle. He could almost touch the altar now, smooth stonework nearly within reach, and he slowly raises his eyes.

A voice calls to him from outside the circle—Sir Leon, sounding distant and frantic. He can't be more than twenty feet away, but Arthur barely hears him and doesn't care to listen. His entire focus belongs to the silver goblet, glinting in a slant of sunlight. The silver sides are tall and smooth, etched with runes. The symbols are unfamiliar, but Arthur knows somehow that they are both ancient and forbidden. He reaches without conscious thought.

He knows he's being unfathomably stupid. Magic is the only explanation for an otherwise inexplicable desire to touch. He cannot draw his hand back, though again in his mind there is the image of Merlin, disapproving, scowling to mask his fear—

Arthur's fingers close around the goblet, and the world races hot around him. Fire twists beneath his skin and wraps along his spine, a vicious heat that sends him to his knees. He clutches at his head as the edges of awareness singe and blacken, closing in around him. There's the clatter of metal on stone, the sound of the goblet rolling away. A piercing shout barely makes it through the darkening fog.

When Arthur falls, there is no one to catch him.


	2. Chapter 2

Merlin is standing at the ramparts when the knights first come into view, though there are a dozen chores he should be doing instead. He sees the first silver-and-red flash of the patrol party crest a hill to the northwest. The sun hangs on the very verge of setting, and it's difficult to see clearly through the glare, but Merlin watches anyway.

He has an unpleasant feeling in his gut, a simple sense that something is _wrong_ , though he can't put words to his reason.

He's being paranoid probably. Hopefully. He's just taking it personally that Arthur chose to leave him behind, never mind his chores, and now he's alarming himself for no reason. It was a routine patrol. The last dozen have been uneventful, why should this one be any different?

But as the party rides nearer, still far beyond the sight of anyone else in the citadel, Merlin's keen eyes catch a clear glimpse at last, and the very next instant he is running.

"Gaius!" he shouts, nearly falling as he skids around the doorframe and into the workroom. The room smells of bitter herbs and burning substances, but these scents are familiar and Merlin barely notices them.

"Calm yourself, Merlin," Gaius admonishes, but he reacts instinctively to Merlin's panic, setting aside his work and offering his full attention. "What is it?"

"Arthur is back— but something's wrong." 

"What did you see?" Gaius is already gathering his medicine bag and supplies, and Merlin forces himself to still. It won't help to rush Gaius. Arthur and the knights are still several long minutes away, even at the hurried pace Merlin observed from the wall.

"Arthur is unconscious. Beyond that I don't know. But Leon looked..." Merlin doesn't have a word for the expression on Sir Leon's face. He shakes his head, curling his hands into useless fists at his sides. "They were riding hard. They'll be here soon."

Merlin tries to hang back when the knights carry Arthur up the steps from the courtyard. He tries to stay out of the way and let Gaius work. Uther is a terrifying pillar of stillness, watching Gaius' examination, listening as Leon offers what explanations he can. A ruin, an altar, a goblet within a stone circle. And Arthur, unconscious the entire length of the journey back to Camelot. 

Merlin curses himself for ever staying behind.

"But Sire," Leon is saying, addressing Uther rather than Gaius. "We had not ridden ten paces from the keep before it vanished."

"Vanished?" Uther's face is cold, his eyes bright and terrifying. His quiet voice sends a chill down Merlin's spine.

"No one saw it happen," Leon says in a tight voice. "But one instant it was there, the next it was as though the ruin had never been."

"Tell me of the goblet," Gaius says. "Can you describe it in more detail?" He indicates with nothing more than a nod that the knights supporting Arthur should carry him to Gaius' workroom, and they go without question. Uther hesitates, clearly torn between the desire to follow his son and the need for more information.

Leon turns to another knight standing just behind him. Something changes hands between them, and Leon holds whatever it is out to Gaius.

The goblet is slightly misshapen, as though an effort has been made to destroy or damage it but without success. The metal glints silver in Gaius' hands, smooth and bright. Merlin senses magic in the runes etched along the surface, though to what purpose he can't guess. The longer he stares at the goblet, the more his skin itches with questions and confusion. 

"Do you recognize it, Gaius?" Uther asks in the same low, controlled voice as before.

"No," Gaius murmurs thoughtfully. "But these runes are not wholly unfamiliar. Deciphering them may be the only way to revive the prince." 

At last Gaius moves, tucking the goblet into a large pocket of his robe as he turns toward his workroom. Merlin trails respectfully behind them, following at a cautious pace. Drawing Uther's attention is dangerous even at the best of times, and Merlin steps into the workroom several paces behind king and physician.

He isn't listening as Uther admonishes Gaius to help his son, or as Gaius swears he will not rest until he has found answers. Merlin is too busy staring at Arthur on the table, and willing everyone to leave so that Gaius can work. Arthur is too pale to be merely asleep, and just looking at him makes Merlin's chest ache with a need to _fix it_.

When at last the door closes behind Uther—when it's just Gaius and Merlin and Arthur in the small room—Merlin rushes to the prince's side. He doesn't know what he intends to do. He knows only that he has to be closer, a physical need for Arthur's proximity that he doesn't understand but can no longer resist. 

He gasps when Arthur's hand touches his arm. He inhales sharply when he realizes Arthur's eyes are open and staring straight at him, burning into Merlin with the intensity of fire.

" _Gaius_!" Merlin calls, and in his peripheral vision Gaius looks up from the goblet. Gaius freezes, and Merlin can't tear his gaze from Arthur to check what expression he's wearing. It should be relief. Arthur is awake, they should both be _relieved_.

But relief is not what Merlin feels, and it's not what he sees on Gaius' face when Gaius pushes him back from the bench. 

"Wait, why are you— He's _awake_ ," Merlin protests. 

But Gaius is watching Merlin with a half-slanted eyebrow, and Merlin realizes Arthur's eyes have slipped closed again. The whole room separates them now, and that's not right at all— 

" _Merlin_ ," Gaius' voice jars him. Merlin struggles with himself for a long moment, and finally manages to shift his attention.

"He was awake," Merlin repeats weakly. "Why won't you let me—" 

"Because I still do not know what magic is affecting him," Gaius cuts him off, not unkindly. "Without more information, I fear we could do more harm than good."

Merlin struggles to think. He shouldn't have this much trouble understanding what seems a perfectly reasonable argument. Of course Gaius is right. Without knowing what spell Arthur has fallen under, they've no way of knowing _what_ his reaction means.

"What do we do?" Merlin asks helplessly. 

Gaius sighs, and his expression is so apologetic that Merlin doesn't want to hear what he's about to say.

"For now, I think it would be best if you took yourself elsewhere."

" _What_? Gaius, no. I'm not leaving him."

"I do not ask this lightly, Merlin. But I must research these runes, and until I know more I would rather be sure you are out of harm's way."

"Harm's way." Merlin tries to curtail his glower and affect a more reasonable expression. He's in no danger himself, and he's confident he can keep his distance from Arthur if that's what Gaius needs. Reasonably confident. Sort of confident. He _might_ be able to stay away.

Gaius' eyebrow is arching ever higher, and Merlin concedes the point. His posture sags with worry and disappointment, shoulders slumping in defeat. Gaius gives his arm a reassuring pat, which makes Merlin feel not even a little bit better.

"Give me three hours," Gaius says. "Hopefully I'll have found something useful by then."

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Merlin waits exactly three hours, and when he returns he finds Gaius alone.

"Where's Arthur?"

"In his chambers. Still unconscious, I'm afraid."

Gaius looks tired in a way Merlin doesn't like, a way that means worry and fear. He's seen Gaius care for hundreds of patients; he's seen Gaius care for Arthur himself at least a dozen times. The expression on the physician's face now isn't as bad as when the Questing Beast nearly took Arthur's life, but neither is it the reassuring glint of a puzzle solved.

"You didn't find anything," Merlin guesses, closing the door and slumping against it.

"On the contrary." Gaius is suddenly unreadable, guard going up so abruptly that Merlin's hackles rise in answer. "The runes on the goblet have offered remarkable insight. They have not, however, proven instructive. I must research further."

"I could help." Merlin rushes forward a step, but forces himself to stop. "If not with research, then with... other things." Magic is the reason the prince refuses to wake. Surely magic can find a solution. Surely _Merlin's_ magic could—

"No." Gaius' tone leaves no room for debate, and Merlin is struck with the unmistakable sense that his mentor is keeping information from him. "I'm sorry, Merlin. But we cannot risk interfering until I know more. At my suggestion, the king has ordered that Arthur be kept in complete solitude."

"How complete?" Merlin asks warily. He hates the thought of being barred from the prince's presence if (when) Arthur needs him.

For a fleeting instant Gaius' expression shifts, and genuine fear flashes behind his eyes. There and then gone, so fast Merlin might almost believe he imagined it. 

"Gaius." Merlin crosses the workroom cautiously and leans a hip against the workbench. He feels jittery and off, and if he's going to be prevented from returning to Arthur's side where he belongs, he at least wants an explanation. 

"I cannot tell you what is ailing Arthur because I do not know. If there is an answer, I promise you, I will find it." Gaius pauses for a long moment before continuing, "You are not going to be pleased, but I need your word that you will keep your distance from the prince."

"You can't be serious," Merlin protests. "Gaius, it's _Arthur_." 

Gaius, of all people, knows what Arthur means; he knows where Merlin belongs. 

"I am entirely serious." Gaius' hand closes on Merlin's elbow, grip strong and tight. "Merlin, you must promise me."

"Why?" Merlin is wary again, searching Gaius' eyes for answers he won't find there.

"If my suspicions lie anywhere near the truth, then Arthur's condition is unstable. Your presence cannot help him, might even do him harm, and your magic..." Gaius tapers off and for several seconds simply watches Merlin, cryptic and motionless. "I fear if you were to use magic near him now, you would place him in grave peril."

"You're saying he could die," Merlin gapes. For all his fear, Merlin had not truly considered the possibility. 

"Yes." Gaius offers no further explanation, and no reassurance at all, but Merlin swallows and nods.

"I promise." The words stick like gravel in his throat, but he forces them out anyway. "No magic. And I'll stay away. I won't..." He closes his eyes, ignoring the way his head spins. "I won't endanger him. I promise."

Gaius blinks at him a moment longer, as if searching for the lie in Merlin's words. At last he says, more gently, "Thank you."

"Gaius," Merlin says in a small, tired voice. "Will he be all right?"

"Get some sleep, Merlin. We'll talk in the morning."

\- — - — - — - — - — -

But in the morning, Gaius makes him deliver draughts and medicines throughout the castle, then sends him off on a long list of errands to the lower town. In the afternoon it's vital herbs that Gaius insists he needs collected as quickly as possible.

"Why are you trying to get rid of me?" Merlin asks, dour and irritated.

"Because you are at your most distracting when you're anxious, and I have a great deal of work to do."

"I could help." Merlin is determined to keep trying, though Gaius has refused every offer of assistance.

"I appreciate your eagerness to contribute, but it would be of no avail. Teaching you these runes would require a great deal of time, and that time will be better spent in searching for answers." 

Merlin storms out in a huff, so angry that it's not until two hours later he bothers to feel guilty. By then he's in the middle of the forest, and there's no point apologizing anyway. Gaius will just keep sending him away, and Merlin will get angry all over again. 

He has to trust that Gaius will find something. He has to be patient.

But patience is difficult when Arthur remains out of Merlin's reach. Two days pass. Three. Gaius finds nothing useful, or if he does he isn't telling Merlin. 

Merlin feels wrong in his own skin, constantly distracted no matter his task. His worry for Arthur settles behind his ribs, a tangible presence keeping him anxious and unsteady. The sensation mounts with each passing hour, until he starts to wonder if he's going genuinely mad.

His sleep is patchy, broken too easily by nothing at all. Dreams of Arthur end jarringly, warmth giving way to the cool darkness of Merlin's room. 

On day four Gaius doesn't even give him a task. He simply sends Merlin away. Merlin considers seeking Gwen out, but finds himself pacing the battlements instead. Terror constricts his heart, and he hates this. He doesn't know how to stand helplessly by when Arthur is in danger; it goes against every instinct in his bones.

The surrounding quiet plays tricks on him as daylight gives way to sunset. He can hear Arthur's voice in his head, a phantom memory calling his name. Not a memory, though. Not precisely. Arthur has never said his name quite this way, low and urgent and pleading. 

Merlin doesn't sleep that night, though he tries. The pleading call in the back of his head has gradually crescendoed, spreading through him like a physical need. 

Dawn is still hours away when he realizes the voice isn't just his anxious imagination. 

" _Arthur_ ," he hisses, sitting upright in a rush. 

He doesn't understand, but that doesn't stop him from moving. He's got his hand on his door before he remembers the promise he made to Gaius; and he's through the workroom, stepping into the corridor beyond, before he realizes it's a promise he can't keep. 

He shuts the door behind him as silently as possible, and makes it half a dozen steps down the corridor before realizing how poorly planned his actions are. The midnight hall is uncomfortable, with nothing but thin sleep pants and his oldest tunic to protect Merlin from the cold. Worse is the fact that he's forgotten his shoes. The stone chills the soles of his feet, sends shivers along his skin, and he huddles in on himself as he moves.

Merlin doesn't once consider turning back. He doesn't slow his pace.

There is only one guard outside Arthur's door, but Merlin doesn't dare use magic to sneak past him. Not this close to Arthur; not after Gaius' admonishments. Merlin knows too little about the enchantment affecting the prince.

But the guard sees Merlin approach and stands aside to let him through, apparently unaware that the solitude the king has commanded extends to the prince's manservant. Merlin nods as he passes, but doesn't try to smile. He receives no acknowledgment in return, but reaches the door unimpeded. The door creaks quietly as he steps through, then clicks loudly shut behind him. Arthur's presence in the room is an almost tangible sensation, a rush that steals Merlin's breath away, and some unfathomable instinct makes him lock the door. 

A fire burns low in the enormous hearth. With all the windows closed and latched, the night's chill has little hold over Arthur's chambers. The fire offers just enough light to see, accustomed as Merlin's eyes are to the darkness of the corridors, and his eyes search out Arthur in the enormous bed.

Arthur is still asleep, and even though Merlin knew to expect no different, the sight still disappoints him. He approaches the bed with silent movements, not for any attempt at stealth but because his bare feet make little sound on the stone floor. 

Arthur will not wake, and the guard already knows he's here. Merlin has no reason to keep quiet.

He stops only once he has reached Arthur's side, and takes in the slumbering prince with worry. Arthur's skin is far too pale in the firelight, and his chest barely moves as he breathes. There's no sign of the rumpled mess he usually makes of his bedclothes. The sheets should be twisted in all directions from restless slumber, pillows shoved carelessly aside. Instead, everything is placed perfectly around the prince, as though he hasn't moved in all the time he's been abed. 

Arthur's hair is damp and clean, and Merlin suppresses a surge of territorial hurt. He promised Gaius he would stay away—he shouldn't even be here now—but it still bothers him to think of someone else seeing to his duties, caring for Arthur in his absence. Arthur is Merlin's responsibility, and the thought of someone else being here when he isn't, when he _can't_... The idea makes Merlin's stomach clench, and he finds himself reaching forward without conscious intent, ghosting a touch over the pale, too-hot curve of Arthur's cheek.

He gasps when warm fingers wrap around his wrist with bruising strength, and he stumbles back, but doesn't make it far. Arthur is holding on too tightly.

When Arthur's eyes open, Merlin's breath catches in his throat. There's no sign of sleepy confusion, no bleariness or uncertainty. There's only the sword-sharp edge of Arthur's focus closing on Merlin like a snare.

"Merlin." Arthur has never said his name like that before, raw and hoarse and full of gravel. It's overwhelming, and possibly the most terrifying thing Merlin has ever heard. A cautious tug does nothing to dislodge Arthur's grip, and Merlin swallows down his anxiety, reminds himself to be relieved that Arthur is awake.

"How do you feel?" Merlin asks. 

Arthur sits up slowly, and the sheet slides down to reveal the hard lines of his bare chest. His hold slackens the slightest amount, but he doesn't answer. He just watches Merlin, that unreadable intensity glinting like violence in his eyes. 

The second time Merlin tries to pull his wrist free, he succeeds—whether because Arthur let him go or because Merlin put more effort in this time is impossible to say. 

"I'll get you some water," Merlin announces into the uncomfortable silence. 

He turns his back on the confusing, distracting sight of Arthur watching him with such cryptic weight. He can still feel the heavy stare drilling into his back as he hurries to the table. He reaches for the water jug and the cup beside it. The metal is cool beneath his fingers, and he lifts the cup—

It clatters back to the table and he nearly upends the pitcher at the sudden warmth of Arthur's body pressing close along his spine. Arthur's hand is gentle, curling around Merlin's bicep as Arthur leans closer still.

"Water is not what I need." Arthur's lips brush Merlin's ear with the words, and the unexpected intimacy sets Merlin on high alert. Confusion heats his face, and his fingers clench around the jug's smooth handle. The metal is no longer cool to the touch; it's grown warm with the heat of his hand.

No matter how noisily Arthur always argues otherwise, Merlin is not an idiot. Naive as he is, he understands the implications of Arthur's proximity—of the way Arthur is touching him, grip shifting tighter on his arm.

He has fantasized about Arthur. Those fantasies were nothing like this.

Merlin's skin flushes hot, and he wonders for an instant if there's some chance he's misinterpreting the prince's intentions. Arthur is impossibly warm, clearly feverish. He might not realize what he's doing. He might not realize how he sounds, his voice low and rough in Merlin's ear.

Then Arthur's lips press to Merlin's throat, soft but deliberate, and Merlin knows he has understood perfectly. A second kiss, just below the first, and Merlin's lips part on a shaky inhale. 

"Arthur," he manages, sounding only a little choked. "What are you doing?"

"Tell me, Merlin," Arthur murmurs. The fingers around Merlin's arm tighten uncomfortably, like a warning. The roughness of the touch ignites something like fear beneath Merlin's skin, but also a confusing heat, and Merlin swallows and lets go of the pitcher before Arthur continues, "Have you ever bedded anyone?"

The blunt question snaps through him like a blow, and Merlin jolts beneath Arthur's touch. He reacts without thought, twisting free and keeping his back to Arthur as he darts away from the table. He needs to put some distance between them so that at least _one_ of them can think.

But he doesn't get far before Arthur grabs him again, firm grip reclaiming Merlin's arm and yanking him around. Merlin is already bracing himself for a fight, but the look on Arthur's face knocks the wind right out of him. Merlin expected— He's honestly not sure _what_ he expected. Arthur would never be deliberately cruel. He would never mock or tease, even if he suspected Merlin of harboring a crush

But the look on Arthur's face stops Merlin cold. A shadow of unmasked desperation darkens the prince's features into an expression Merlin has never seen him wear. It freezes Merlin's instinctive retreat as he meets Arthur's eyes, and suddenly can't breathe.

When Arthur closes on him, his steps are quiet and cautious. There's something predatory in his movements. Merlin has seen Arthur hunt, and he recognizes this stance.

He doesn't want to think of himself as prey.

But Arthur is in Merlin's space now. He's a broad, entitled presence, standing too close, as though he has every right to do so—every right to _Merlin_ —and Merlin needs to find his voice so he can tell Arthur otherwise. 

Instead he stands frozen, and when the weight of Arthur's stare is too much, Merlin drops his gaze to the floor. It's all he can do to work air in and out of his lungs.

His chest feels hot and tight, as something unfamiliar coils inside him. He doesn't resist when Arthur's fingers curl beneath his chin like a command, and Arthur forces Merlin to meet his eyes.

The seconds before Arthur kisses him last a raw eternity—long enough for Merlin to wonder what it will be like. He's imagined this before, if only in the most private corner of his mind. He's seen Arthur kiss women, gentle and warm and almost smiling, and he's wondered—

Then Arthur's mouth is on him, and it's nothing like he imagined.

Arthur's kiss is a commanding force, even before he coaxes Merlin's mouth open—even before his tongue slides roughly past Merlin's lips to taste and claim—and it's simple instinct to submit as Arthur takes what he wants. 

Merlin breathes a startled sound when Arthur draws back and catches Merlin's lower lip between his teeth. Then the kiss ends and leaves Merlin reeling—dizzy and off-balance, and not quick enough to realize what Arthur is doing. By the time his brain catches up, Arthur has yanked Merlin's thin tunic over his head and tossed the garment aside.

"Wait," Merlin gasps, resisting this time when Arthur drags him close, but Arthur holds onto him with embarrassing ease. Merlin grunts surprise at the unexpected sting of teeth at his throat, and then Arthur's mouth is moving, mapping Merlin's overheated skin with lips and tongue and teasing bites. Air sucks sharply into Merlin's lungs, and he can't think. His head buzzes, his chest is tight with too many sensations, with one sensation growing louder than the rest— 

He doesn't know how long that one sensation has been mounting, but now that he's aware of it he is suddenly terrified. It's magic, he knows with infallible instinct. But beyond that he can't guess what it means.

This has gone too far. Merlin should have put a stop to it the instant Arthur touched him, and he knows with dread certainty that if he is going to act it must be now. 

He can't use magic. Arthur is too close; he would see or feel, he would _know_. And Merlin is heedful of Gaius' admonition, the warning that his magic might do Arthur some greater harm. He will have to use more straightforward methods; he will simply say no. 

Arthur is behaving strangely, but he will listen if Merlin says no.

Merlin puts more force into his attempt this time, and succeeds at pushing Arthur off of him. The space that separates them is still not enough for comfort, barely a foot and a half, but it's a start. Merlin sets his jaw and projects all the strength and determination he can muster. He meets Arthur's eyes steadily.

"Enough," he says, surprised at how calm his own voice sounds. "I'll get Gaius. Now that you're awake he can—"

" _No_ ," Arthur interrupts, his face a strange mix of wrath and terror. It's an awful expression, and Merlin's gut twists at the sight.

"Arthur—"

"No." The word is no less determined for all that Arthur speaks it more softly the second time. Arthur moves closer. "You cannot leave me. Not now. I _need you_ , Merlin."

"You're not yourself." Merlin retreats as surreptitiously as he can. He angles his back towards the door and moves that direction without taking his eyes off of Arthur.

"I will not let you go." There is finality in Arthur's words.

Merlin moves, but Arthur is faster, strong hands and warrior's reflexes and all the vicious efficiency of his years of training. Of course Merlin doesn't stand a chance. By the time his head stops spinning, he's on the floor, his back pressed to smooth, cool stone. Arthur is a wall of crushing heat above him, pinning Merlin with the weight of his body.

Merlin is naked, and he realizes this fact with alarm—but also with a guilty rush of heat. His trousers have ended up god only knows where, thanks to Arthur's impossible agility, and there are a hundred conflicted instincts clashing behind Merlin's ribs.

The strongest of them tells him to magic his way out of this mess, but of course that's not an option. Another instinct urges him to simply let Arthur take what he wants; Merlin's whole body is tight with confused desire, and he _could_ — They could— 

But he can't. Arthur is not himself, and to let this happen would be an unforgivable betrayal. Even if it were not, this isn't a choice so easily made. Merlin has fantasized, but he hasn't the first clue if he actually wants this. There's a world of difference between imagining his prince's hands on him—wondering what it might be like—and then this, the reality of it, the disastrous circumstances that have brought them here.

But Merlin is caught between impossible choices. Magic is his only sure escape, and it's a resource he cannot use. Even if he were willing to reveal his secret (and he might be, god help him, he might if it would prevent what's about to happen), he will not risk doing Arthur further harm. 

So Merlin keeps his magic at bay, despite instinct screaming at him to escape. He confines himself to physical struggles. It's embarrassing how useless they are. He's not strong enough, nor quick enough. It takes Arthur only one hand to pin both of Merlin's wrists above his head, and then there is truly nothing he can do.

When Arthur nudges between his thighs and slides two spit-slick fingers into him, Merlin falls instantly still. He makes no sound, because he cannot breathe. Arthur's touch is intimate and terrifying. It hurts, but worse is the way the coiling ocean of unfamiliar magic lights up inside him when Arthur's fingers slide deeper. The magic offers a throbbing rush of pleasure alongside the sharp ache, and Merlin feels his body loosening, accommodating as Arthur twists his fingers, as he curls them inside and makes Merlin gasp and arch beneath him.

For all Merlin's awareness and control of the nuances of time, he has no concept of how long Arthur touches him like that. It seems both an eternity and an instant later when those fingers slip out of him, and Arthur is already kissing him again, deep and possessive, murmuring words it takes Merlin too long to decipher.

"— _mine_ ," he is saying. "No one else. Not ever. You are _mine_ , Merlin." The magic beneath Merlin's skin surges dangerously at the words, bright and hot and golden. He wonders if his eyes are glowing, but when Arthur draws back he looks at Merlin without any such surprise on his face. 

There's a fumbling moment as Arthur undoes his own laces one-handed—as he slides into the space between Merlin's thighs, spits into his palm and reaches down—

The sound Merlin makes when Arthur enters him would surely have drawn attention from the guard outside the door—if Arthur hadn't released his wrists in favor of covering Merlin's mouth with a heavy palm. Merlin's not sure which is more painful, the physical violation, or the blinding surge of magic rushing him, choking him, twining through and around him. The magic feels like it's strangling him, binding him down to his very soul—

Arthur's mouth is against Merlin's throat, Arthur's voice murmuring nonsense. Or maybe they're coherent words, and Merlin simply can't process them. The magic is engulfing, and Merlin clings to Arthur without shame, too overwhelmed to offer anything like resistance as Arthur's hips snap forward. 

It's with a jolt of surprise that Merlin realizes he's hard, and he grows harder still when Arthur shifts his grip and clings to him with both hands. Merlin chokes back a moan at the friction along sensitized flesh, the growing sensation of power that is not his own, building somewhere so deep he can't name it.

He's on fire. He is lost.

" _Merlin_ ," Arthur gasps against his collarbone, but Merlin can't answer. Arthur's weight crushes him to the floor, hands holding Merlin down as Arthur ruts roughly into him.

The pain dulls but doesn't fade entirely as Merlin's body adjusts to the unsteady rhythm, though the magic inside him only spins tighter. As the physical sensations turn to something more like pleasure, he knows he and Arthur are mounting towards something dangerous and inescapable—something they can never take back. 

When Arthur groans and collapses heavily atop him, spilling deep and hot, Merlin can't hold back the cresting wave of his own orgasm.

The magic hurtles out of him, power erupting from deep inside, and white heat spills from every inch of Merlin's skin. He screams, but it isn't his voice; it's the call of magic burning his throat, arching his entire body off the floor beneath Arthur's pinning weight. He knows his eyes are blazing a bright, terrible gold, but he can't even think to be relieved Arthur won't see. The air heats and swirls with wind, and the fire in the hearth rises violently. 

There's an instant's stillness—perhaps an illusion, perhaps time itself drawing still—and then the windows of Arthur's chamber shatter outwards. The chair nearest Merlin splinters to violent pieces as wind tears ferociously around them.

Everything quiets at once. The magic banks within him, and Merlin isn't screaming, though he doesn't know when he stopped. The fire in the hearth settles gradually, still brighter than it was, but a normal fire once again. Belatedly, Merlin remembers how to breathe.

He aches. The magic has left chaos and confusion in his chest, and he can't remember ever hurting in quite this way before.

Heavy pounding shakes the door, and Merlin's blood freezes as he realizes what the sound, the chaos of voices in the corridor must mean. The guard has summoned help, and they're trying to break the door down. Merlin curses inwardly and can think of no greater disaster than being discovered like this, Arthur unconscious, their recent activities impossible to hide, the room a mess that nature could not have created—

Merlin tries to move the table and block the door, but nothing happens. His magic is too raw inside, and the effort makes him gasp and tremble. He doesn't try again.

Arthur shifts above him, groaning pitiably. Only now does his softening length slide out of Merlin's body, and Merlin bites back a hiss of discomfort. He watches warily as Arthur wavers, muddled confusion in his posture, pain evident in the way he presses a hand to his own temple.

Then Arthur's eyes fly open in alarm. He looks down at Merlin, and there is horror in his gaze, violent guilt, and for a moment they simply stare at each other in helpless silence.

Arthur startles at the next resounding impact at the door, and it seems he is just now noticing the commotion from the corridor beyond. Without taking his eyes off of Merlin, he raises his voice and shouts into a moment of relative quiet.

"I'm all right! Just a moment!"

Silence settles behind the door, but Merlin knows the respite is only temporary.

"Merlin—," Arthur whispers. Merlin can read the apology in Arthur's eyes, and he can't. Not yet. 

"Arthur, they can't find us like this. We haven't much time."

Arthur's mouth snaps shut, and he nods, climbing awkwardly off of Merlin and tucking himself away. He does up his laces with clumsy fingers, throwing uncertain looks at Merlin the entire time. Merlin does his best to ignore Arthur, gathering his discarded attire and clothing himself unsteadily. He's surprised to discover that being less naked doesn't actually make him feel any better. 

His legs are shaking beneath him, and he hasn't the first clue what he's supposed to say once that door opens.

Suddenly Arthur is beside him, hovering close, not quite touching. He looks terrified. 

Merlin tries to offer a reassuring smile, and it's a pathetic failure. It's even worse an instant later, when Merlin feels himself falling, and the world falling dark around him.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur catches Merlin easily, intercepting his fall with the ease of instinct. He spares a glance for the shattered chaos of his chambers, and curses aloud. He doesn't know what to do and there's _no time_. If he doesn't open that door soon, it will come down anyway.

But he can't unlock the door with his arms full of Merlin's unconscious form, and Arthur does a hurried survey of his limited options.

Propriety serves no purpose now, he decides, and he lifts Merlin more securely in his arms and carries him to the bed. He lays Merlin atop the bedclothes with every care, then hesitates before running his fingers through Merlin's hair, trying to calm the wild strands so that they're no messier than usual.

Arthur crosses his chambers tiredly and at last unlocks the door, leaving the key in place as the door swings open on abused hinges. His father's face is ominous in the torchlight, dark and anxious, but brightens at the sight of his son. Relief glints in his eyes, and he strides forward to grab Arthur by the arms and peer at him with unmasked concern. 

Several paces behind the king, Gaius stands with a very different expression on his face. Arthur doesn't know how to interpret the guarded blankness and stiff posture, and he wonders how much Gaius knows. He can't ask without alarming his father, who is already bombarding him with questions, demanding to know what happened. Arthur reluctantly returns his focus where it belongs, trying not to think of Merlin in the chamber behind him—trying not to think about the acrid guilt twisting sharp in his chest. 

"I'm fine, father," he lies, trying not to look like he's blocking the door. So far Uther has shown no indication of wanting to move this conversation out of the hall, but the instant he senses Arthur trying to hide something he will barrel past to see for himself. 

"What happened?" Uther repeats, sounding impatient now. He lets go of Arthur's arms, and Arthur straightens and squares his shoulders before he speaks.

"I honestly don't know. Merlin was here when I woke, holding an empty vial." Amazingly, the lie comes out smooth and palatable. 

"Then you found a remedy, Gaius?" Uther's attention shifts, piercing enquiry illuminated by torchlight.

"It would seem so, Sire." Gaius' eyebrow quirks higher, but he barely glances at Arthur before continuing, "I apologize for not informing sooner, but I was far from certain the mixture would have an effect. I intended to inform you the instant I was sure of success."

"Thank you, Gaius."

"Sire," one of the guards hesitantly interrupts, looking stiff and uncomfortable. "We heard a scream."

"Yes," Arthur says, mind scrambling for an explanation to offer. Of course they heard the scream—what else brought them to try and break down his door? "It was my fault. When I woke, I was disoriented. My first reaction was violence." 

"The boy?" Uther's tone evinces more curiosity than concern, but behind him Gaius draws himself taller, fear straightening his aged shoulders.

"He's unconscious." It is the first truth Arthur has spoken since opening this door, and it tastes like ash on his tongue. "I hurt him, father." His father will not approve of remorse, wasting concern over a mere servant, but Arthur doesn't try to hide his reaction. A moment later, the king shakes his head almost indulgently.

"What matters is that you are safe. Gaius, see to my son. I will require a full account in the morning." 

Then Uther is gone, vanishing down the corridor with a commanding stride, and with him go the guards. It is all Arthur can do to remain still until they all disappear, and then he moves, ignoring Gaius and rushing back into the room—back to Merlin's side.

Merlin lies perfectly still in Arthur's bed. His face is calm with sleep, and he doesn't stir when Arthur sits beside him and grabs him by the shoulders. Nor does he stir when Arthur shakes him, trying to rouse him with rough, terrified hands.

"Merlin. _Merlin_." Useless. Merlin gives no hint of noticing Arthur's efforts. Without taking his eyes or his hands off of Merlin, Arthur asks Gaius, "Why won't he wake?"

"If I am to answer that question, you must tell me what really happened." Arthur can read nothing in Gaius' cautious tone. "I discovered no remedy."

"Merlin was at my bedside when I woke. He seemed surprised—" Arthur's brow furrows as confusion blooms bright and sharp in his chest. "Why is everyone so surprised I'm awake? What happened, and why do I feel...?" He doesn't know exactly what he feels. Off-balance and strange. It's not just shame winding him tight. 

"You have been unconscious for several days, Sire. And while the cause was quite evident, my best efforts could not revive you."

"Was it magic?" Arthur sits suddenly straighter, taking his hands off of Merlin. He hates himself for how desperately he wants to put some portion of blame anywhere but his own shoulders. He squashes the tiny, bitter ember of hope and finally turns to Gaius.

"Powerful magic indeed," Gaius says. Then, instead of elaborating, he asks, "What _really_ happened, Sire?"

Arthur tries to answer, but the confession lodges like stone in his throat. There's a growing buzz in his ears, throbbing in time with his own pulse, and he rises on unsteady legs. He approaches the shattered window cautiously, trying not to think about the unnatural chaos of his chambers. There is no glass on the floor—whatever power demolished the windows, it carried such force that the glass and leading scattered only outward, leaving nothing but jagged edges behind.

Gaius takes the spot Arthur has left, hands steady as he checks Merlin for signs of harm. He must notice the forming bruises, but he doesn't comment. He simply waits in silence for Arthur to speak.

Arthur can't meet Gaius' eyes, any more than he can look at Merlin for this, and he stares out into the night and struggles for calm.

"I hurt him," Arthur says, the words tight and reluctant. "That much was true. I don't know how I could have— He fought me, and I still—" Arthur has to stop, has to swallow and start again, because his face is hot and his eyes are stinging, and he is not strong enough for this. Bracing himself with fading courage, it takes him several seconds to confess, "I forced myself on him, Gaius."

Gaius' silence stings like censure, and Arthur can't bring himself to turn from the window. There is more he must say, and staring out into the night is the only way he knows to make the words come. It takes him long moments to gather his thoughts, because he doesn't understand himself what he is about to explain. He _doesn't_ know what happened, and his memories are a molten jumble. 

He's not entirely sure how to put into words what he felt at the instant of his climax. He doesn't trust his own perceptions of that moment. But he has to try.

"He screamed at the end," Arthur says at last. "But it was not a human sound. I've never heard its like." He clenches his hands into fists at his sides. "And in my chest there was... It felt like light, or... fire? It hurt. It burned like nothing I've ever felt before. And then all this." He gestures at the state of his chambers, the broken windows and shattered furnishings, the strewn chaos that can only have come of magic, echoes of violence woven into the very air.

Gaius remains silent, and when Arthur can no longer bear it he turns from the window. 

The old physician is not even looking at him. His entire focus is for Merlin, and there is nothing but heartbroken worry in his eyes.

"Gaius, please," Arthur implores. "You must help him."

"I am not sure I can. Though I think he will wake soon enough."

Arthur inhales sharply, and the breath sounds as pained as it feels. For a moment his gut twists so violently he fears he will vomit. His distress draws Gaius' attention, and Arthur falls utterly still as the old man stands and approaches him. Gaius doesn't try to touch him, and for that Arthur is grateful. Somehow, even now, there is no judgment in Gaius' eyes.

There _should_ be judgment. They both know what Arthur has done.

"Sire, you must understand, this was not your fault. You were not yourself."

Arthur barks a broken sound, too hurt to be a laugh, and a furious grimace twists his features.

"I hurt him," he echoes his previous words.

"You did not intend to."

"The enchantment." Arthur raises his eyes, anger twisting steeply around the guilt in his chest. "Tell me more. You identified the spell?"

"Yes," Gaius nods. "You stumbled into a binding spell, ancient in its design. But the enchantment should not have affected you as it did. You were alone."

"A binding spell," Arthur echoes, confusion tight in his throat.

"Soul magic, Sire. It is old magic, enormously powerful. I advised your father to keep you isolated while I searched for a remedy." Arthur knows there are questions flashing in his eyes, and Gaius must understand because he adds, "I had hoped that by so doing, I could find a way to undo the spell before it was complete."

"What do you mean, complete?" A chill of fear creeps through Arthur, cooling his skin, drawing his spine taut. "What does this have to do with Merlin?"

"I think you already suspect the answer to both of those questions." 

"No." Arthur shakes his head emphatically, comprehension hitting him all at once. " _No_ , Gaius. I have done him enough harm. You must find a way to fix this." Arthur has already committed a violation that cannot be undone. He can't bear the thought of an even greater violation, of binding Merlin to him by magic as Gaius' admonition suggests.

"I cannot," Gaius says simply, sadly. "I am truly sorry, Sire. But this is old magic. There is no undoing what has already been done. Your souls cannot be unwoven now that they are joined."

"What does that mean?" Arthur's gaze drifts from Gaius, drawn to inexorably to Merlin. Merlin's chest rises and falls, breathing shallow but steady, and his face is slack with sleep. Arthur is overwhelmed with the urge to protect him from every harm, and the irony leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. "If something were to happen to me... If I died, would Merlin die as well?"

"I don't know," Gaius admits. "All my researches have been focused on preventing this outcome. I have not investigated the longterm effects of such a spell." 

"Then perhaps you are wrong." Steel enters Arthur's voice, but even to his own ears it is a brittle farce. "Perhaps this _can_ be undone. You have simply not yet found the means."

"Perhaps," Gaius agrees, but his tone offers no real hope.

Arthur doesn't intend to move, but with his very next breath he finds himself stepping past Gaius and approaching Merlin again. A shaken voice in his own head tells him to keep his distance, but he ignores the warning. He sits once more on the edge of the bed, reaching down as though to brush Merlin's messy hair from his face—

Arthur yanks his hand back and curls his fingers tightly together in his lap.

"You should summon a guard to carry him back to your rooms," Arthur announces, though his voice is ragged gravel. "I do not think I should touch him right now."

"That might be unwise." Gaius hovers close, worry deepening in the heavy tilt of his eyebrows. "The magic between you will not have settled so quickly. Separating you now could cause unforeseen harm."

' _He cannot stay here_ ,' Arthur nearly snaps, but his tongue has frozen and the words will not come. More than anything he wants Merlin to stay, and his own selfishness appalls him.

"Arthur," Gaius says, using his name for the first time since entering the prince's chambers. Gaius' tone carries a weight that suggests something even less pleasant to discuss. He pauses with obvious reluctance, and Arthur's hackles rise.

"What is it?" Arthur demands.

"I hope you will not think me disloyal," Gaius says softly, "but you must realize... Uther cannot learn of this."

Arthur's blood runs instantly cold. He knew, of course; he has already lied tonight because he knew. But Arthur has never been comfortable lying to his king, and the enormity of what Gaius is asking him to hide feels like a hundred-stone weight around his neck.

"There is no way around it, Sire. If your father were to learn the truth of what happened here tonight, you know how he would react." Gaius pauses and then adds quietly, "You know whom he would blame." Arthur's jaw clenches, but he nods, and Gaius continues, "I fear his first response might be simply to have Merlin killed and hope for the best."

"I will never allow that to happen," Arthur snaps. His ire flashes hot, but quickly cools, because he understands that Gaius is speaking nothing but sense. "You are right, of course. You can trust in my discretion."

"And you can trust that I will do everything in my power to find a remedy." Gaius sets a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and Arthur tries not to flinch beneath it. "But I'm afraid you must prepare yourself for the possibility that I will fail."

"Just do your best, Gaius. That is all I ask."

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Despite Arthur's exhaustion, he does not sleep.

It's mostly fear that prevents him. The bed is more than large enough to accommodate both of them and leave ample space between, but Arthur doesn't trust himself.

Instead he stands vigil through the darkest hours of the night, glaring out the shattered window, insensible to the chilly air blowing through it. He tries not to look at Merlin, so of course he spends most of the night watching Merlin sleep. Merlin looks impossibly young, firelight and moonlight warring across pale skin, and Arthur crosses his arms tightly to stop himself from touching. 

There's a low, constant pulse of unfamiliar sensation in his chest, twining around his heart, and it's this he wants to blame for the urge to touch. But in truth he doesn't know if he can. How much fault can he assign the magic he is gradually becoming aware of, humming subtly inside him, and how much is simply _him_? Wanting to touch Merlin is not an entirely new experience, though he has never wanted quite so desperately as he does now.

But this is no guarantee the magic is to blame. Arthur is painfully aware of his own culpability.

Outside, morning dawns so slowly that Arthur doesn't notice. Merlin stirs before Arthur realizes how bright the room has become, gray light creeping grimly along the horizon and sneaking through the empty window. The light offers all too clear a view of the restless way Merlin shifts in Arthur's bed, slow to open his eyes.

Merlin is clearly disoriented when he wakes, and Arthur can guess easily enough at what his first questions will be.

"What—," Merlin turns his head without sitting up, taking in his surroundings. "Why am I—"

"Gaius said it would be unwise to move you," Arthur breaks in dully. He doesn't bother to elaborate, never mind the confusion furrowing Merlin's brow.

Their gazes lock, and Arthur's lips thin into a line at the way Merlin's confusion vanishes in an instant. Merlin's eyes darken, and one corner of his mouth twitches downward. Silence stretches between them, endless and awful, even as the first sounds of life clank and clammer from outside. Arthur can think of nothing to say, and Merlin isn't helping. He hasn't even moved to sit up, instead staring blankly back at Arthur, something indecipherable burning behind his eyes. 

Arthur forces himself not to look away, and eventually Merlin's gaze drops. Which just sets a whole new flavor of guilt blooming behind Arthur's ribs, as he watches Merlin carefully sit up. Merlin's every movement is cautious, broadcasting obvious discomfort.

"Something's wrong," Merlin says, and Arthur snorts disbelief. Merlin is quick to huff and protest, "I didn't mean—" But he pauses, as though his brain is just now catching up to his mouth, and then continues more softly, "I meant besides that."

Arthur doesn't ask what else he means. He's painfully aware of it himself after Gaius' fractured explanations, and after an entire night of agonized introspection. Merlin means the unfamiliar _something_ Arthur can feel in his own chest, the kernel of warmth that doesn't belong, pulsing in time with his heart. The pull is stronger now that Merlin is awake, and it takes most of Arthur's considerable willpower not to go to him now.

"It's magic," Arthur says, wishing he didn't have to explain. Merlin has encountered magic, but he can't know the intimate feel of it. Not like this. 

"What kind of magic? It isn't—" But Merlin stops short, mouth closing and lips thinning into an expression Arthur can't decipher. 

"Soul magic," he clarifies, remembering Gaius' words.

"You were enchanted." Merlin shifts to the edge of the bed, movements tentative and shaky. He's moving _towards_ Arthur, not away, but when he swings his legs to the floor he doesn't stand. Not yet. His fingers curl tightly around the edge of the mattress, knuckles white. "Gaius said he didn't know what was wrong. He told me to stay away from you. He made me promise."

"Did he?" Arthur's back is straight as a spear, and he drags his gaze from Merlin to glare steadily out the window.

"He said my presence might endanger you further."

Arthur physically starts at that, struggling to wrap his head around the implications. It seems unthinkable that Gaius would lie to Merlin. More troubling by far is the fact that he knew to keep Merlin away from Arthur. Had he realized this would happen? Has Arthur really been so transparent? He wouldn't have expected constant ridicule and an unfair work load to give away the fact that he cares for Merlin far more than he should.

These thoughts distract him, and he is not thinking as he reaches forward to set a hand on the window ledge. A sharp edge of glass, still attached to the stone ledge, cuts into his left palm, and Arthur hisses and jerks his hand back. He feels like an idiot, but Merlin is on his feet before Arthur can protest. He takes Arthur's injured hand and clasps it in both of his, putting pressure on the wound as blood wells in Arthur's palm.

"You should be more careful, Sire," Merlin admonishes softly, almost lightly.

"I know." Arthur's voice is just as soft, but there's nothing light in the words, and his somber tone draws Merlin up short.

"Arthur..." Merlin sounds helpless, and his eyes are alarmingly wide.

"I'm sorry, Merlin." Arthur sways closer and prays Merlin doesn't notice. "I'm so sorry. I can't—"

Merlin covers Arthur's mouth with his hand, startling him to silence. There's something painful and desperate in Merlin's eyes, as though the last thing he wants is for Arthur to finish whatever he was about to say. They stand too long like that, quiet and lost together. 

Then, surprising as the glass slicing into Arthur's palm, Merlin smiles. It looks deliberate, thin and fragile, but still real. Still _Merlin_ , and Arthur is more relieved than he has any right to be.

When Merlin takes his hand back, Arthur tastes his own blood on his lips.


	4. Chapter 4

Merlin shouldn't be afraid of returning to his and Gaius' rooms. 

He certainly doesn't fear _Gaius_. His mentor's exasperated disappointment is something Merlin inspires so often, he has no reason to shrink from it now.

But his pace falls slower as he approaches Gaius' workroom, and eventually, he has to admit that he is delaying on purpose.

The problem is the raw tangle of confused emotions in Merlin's chest. The unfamiliar magic wrapping warmly around his insides isn't helping, nor is the memory of Arthur's expression as Merlin took his leave. He shouldn't have glanced back over his shoulder; the wrecked, exhausted look on Arthur's face made it almost impossible to leave, and all Merlin wants to do is turn around and storm straight back to Arthur's chambers. He can't explain his desperation, but it's there, tangled up in all the warmth and hurt and worry. 

The idea of facing Gaius now—of meeting with wry disapproval in daylight, so soon after the events of last night—leaves Merlin shaky long before the door is in sight.

He could go somewhere else, at least for a while. After nearly two years in the royal household, he knows the castle intimately. There are any number of places he could go (hide) where no one would disturb him.

But solitude is only a temporary respite, and it will bring him no answers. 

Merlin forces his pace quicker, struggling to blank his thoughts. The corridors pass in a blur now, though his body protests every step, a reminder he doesn't need. He squares his shoulders and continues. 

When he reaches his destination, he doesn't pause to brace himself. Stepping inside, he finds Gaius beside his work bench at the far end of the room. Gaius' back is turned, his attention clearly engrossed by his task. He startles when Merlin speaks.

"I'm sorry I didn't listen to you, Gaius."

Gaius falls still, and _now_ Merlin braces himself. But when Gaius turns, Merlin can find no censure in his eyes, no tired disappointment. There's something quiet and sad that's almost worse, and Merlin doesn't know what to make of it. 

The stillness persists only seconds, and then Gaius hurries toward him, worry in his posture and in every step. He reaches for Merlin one instant, pauses the next like he's reconsidering the wisdom of the gesture. Finally he wraps his arms around Merlin's shoulders, pulling him down into a careful hug. His arms are loose and cautious, and Merlin can't decide whether to be grateful or angry at the care Gaius is taking.

"My dear boy," Gaius murmurs, and Merlin decides on grateful. He doesn't return Gaius' reassuring embrace, but something eases inside him just the same. There is nothing of ' _I told you so_ ' in this gesture, nor any hint of reproach in the spoken words.

When Gaius lets him go, Merlin for the first time notices the ridiculous quantity of food on the nearer, cleaner table. Gaius nudges Merlin towards the bench.

"Sit. Eat." 

Merlin's hesitation lasts barely an instant, but Gaius probably notices. Gaius _definitely_ notices the way Merlin flinches when he settles onto the hard wooden bench, despite his best efforts to mask the reaction with a well-timed duck of his head. 

"Are you in pain?" Gaius asks, but it's not really a question. 

Merlin's face heats as he looks away and shakes his head.

"It's not that bad." The words aren't a total lie. The physical ache he feels in so many places (in some more than others) is nothing compared to the way his magic sits raw and off balance inside him. He nudges at his magic, then shies away, terrified at the unfamiliar _something_ he finds twining alongside. It's power like nothing he's ever felt before, wrapping itself around his insides, and even now it is settling into place and becoming part of him.

Merlin draws an unsteady breath. He eyes but doesn't touch the expansive breakfast laid out across the table. The thought of food makes his stomach turn unpleasantly, and he has far more pressing concerns in any case.

"Gaius, what is soul magic?"

Gaius is silent for a long time, but finally he sighs and sits across from Merlin, folding his hands together on the edge of the table.

"It is ancient magic. The oldest of the Old Religion. There has not been a practitioner alive for almost a century, and the written accounts are sparse at best."

"Then it's a dead magic?"

"Of course not." Gaius pushes a bowl of porridge towards him pointedly, but Merlin ignores it. He watches, quietly expectant, until finally Gaius continues, "The magic of the Old Religion never truly dies. Only the people capable of wielding it. The power remains, as do certain relics if they are well enough hidden."

"That's what happened to Arthur," Merlin realizes. "The goblet the knights brought back with them. It was one of those relics."

"Yes."

"It was a trap." 

"Not precisely."

Merlin's brow furrows with confusion. "But he was dying."

"Soul magic is not malicious by nature. Like other forms of power, it _can_ be used to do great harm. But this spell was designed for something very different."

"Designed for _what_?" Merlin demands, frustrated with these cryptic evasions. He doesn't like Gaius' guarded tone, or the grudging reluctance with which he is divulging the information Merlin needs.

"A sharing of power," Gaius says at last. "It is a binding spell, of sorts. Intended to interweave two souls, and by their union create an even stronger whole."

Merlin blanks for several seconds, tripping over the deeper, more personal implications of Gaius' explanation. His pulse is suddenly rushing, face warming for reasons that have less to do with embarrassment than dawning revelation.

"You can't be saying what I think you're saying. Arthur and I... We can't be—"

"You share a soul now," Gaius says, simply and somberly.

"But it's not permanent." Merlin leans forward, pleading with his eyes. "You can help me undo it."

Gaius looks sad all over again when he says, "Search inside yourself, Merlin. Does this magic feel like something that can be undone?"

Merlin doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. He pushes the untouched bowl of porridge aside and folds his arms atop the table, curling in on himself. His gaze drops as guilt twists through him like ice, and he swallows past a lump of emotion tightening his throat.

"I did try to stay away, Gaius. I wasn't deliberately careless. But I felt him calling me, and I couldn't—"

"You don't have to explain."

Merlin nods but doesn't raise his head. He feels sick inside, right down in that mess of confusion and power. It takes him several seconds to work up the courage to ask Gaius what he still needs to know.

"Why was it me?" He pauses, breathes out and then in. "Is it because— Is it just my magic?" The thought makes him feel even worse, like he's somehow taken advantage. Like _he's_ to blame for tying Arthur to him this way, though Merlin didn't ask for this either.

But Gaius doesn't answer, and when Merlin peeks up through his bangs he finds Gaius deliberately avoiding his eyes.

"What aren't you telling me?" Merlin asks softly.

Gaius huffs a displeased sound, but admits, "The situation is complicated. I identified the enchantment several days ago, from the inscriptions on the goblet."

Merlin doesn't ask why Gaius didn't tell him. Merlin's never been able to spare much survival instinct for himself when Arthur is in danger. Gaius probably feared he would do deliberately exactly what he managed to do without intent. 

"Of the few references I found, all speak of a union of willing souls through a powerful ritual," Gaius continues. "In many ways like a marriage ceremony. The ritual requires the presence of both parties, the speaking of certain words—vows, if you will—in order to even begin the spell, let alone allow the binding magic to run its course. I can find no account of its ever being triggered inadvertently." 

"Then... what happened?" 

"I do not know. And that greatly alarms me." Gaius' expression is grim. "It should not have affected the prince at all. From what Sir Leon reported, Arthur was standing _alone_ in the circle. Even if he touched the relic, his actions should not have called the magic as it did. Perhaps if you had been at his side—"

"But why _me_ , Gaius?" Merlin is shaking again, and he's not sure if it's anger or exhaustion or something else entirely. "Arthur thinks I'm an idiot. Why would he—or... his soul? Why would his soul call _me_?" He thinks of Arthur's feelings for Guinevere, and his stomach knots tighter as his mind conjures terrible images of what might have been—thoughts of the harm Arthur could have done to Gwen.

Merlin says none of this to Gaius. Surely the thought has already occurred to him.

Gaius is quiet so long, Merlin wonders if he will answer at all. There's a considering look on his face, a somber, pensive shadow in his eyes. When he finally speaks, his words carry too much weight.

"You mean more to him than you realize."

"He barely even admits we're friends," Merlin protests, but Gaius just gives him an admonishing look.

"You, of all people, know better than that."

And he does. Of course he does. For all the names Arthur calls him—for all the impatient orders and utter prattishness—for all that Merlin would never presume to say the word aloud, he does know better: they _are_ friends. They have a destiny. Though after last night, Merlin's no longer quite sure what that destiny entails.

"There is another problem." Gaius looks particularly uncomfortable now, wearing the face he makes when there is an unpleasant duty to attend to. "I think we can trust to Arthur's discretion, but the question remains. What will you do now that he knows?"

"Knows what?" Merlin's confusion only mounts with the exasperated look Gaius gives him. "Gaius, honestly. I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Your _magic_ , Merlin."

"Oh."

"Oh, indeed."

"What if..." Merlin swallows, momentarily uncertain. "What if he _doesn't_ know?"

"Preposterous, of course he knows. Even if you hadn't razed his chambers, the two of you _share a soul_ now."

Which seems, on its face, like a fair point. But that doesn't mean Gaius is right.

"Then maybe he's just that oblivious." Merlin juts his chin, bare defiance. "He can't know what magic feels like the way I do. And he didn't say anything. If he knew, he'd have said something. He'd be _furious_."

"Unless he was distracted by other concerns," Gaius points out, a little too gently. 

But Merlin is sure that he's right about this. Unfortunately, he doesn't know how to convince Gaius without going into intimate detail, and that's a conversation he'd rather not have.

"If he knows, then I'll have to talk to him." Merlin trembles at the thought, but reminds himself Arthur _doesn't_ know. "He hasn't banished me from Camelot yet. That must count for something."

"Merlin, you must be exceedingly careful."

"I'm always careful." Merlin makes himself smile, makes his tone light, and even uncurls his posture to look Gaius directly in the eye. He won't be able to convince Gaius he's all right so easily, but maybe he can ease a fraction of the worry from his mentor's face.

But Gaius only reaches across the table to squeeze his wrist, and says nothing further.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

That night, Merlin dreams of Arthur sending him away. The walls and turrets of Camelot disappear behind him like smoke, and cold, angry eyes watch Merlin's retreat. He wakes in a cold sweat and sits up so quickly his head spins, and in that moment he is grateful—so grateful it hurts—that among his talents he has never possessed the gift of sight. He couldn't bear wondering if his dream were a prophecy of things to come.

Even knowing it's a simple nightmare, he can't return to sleep. A lingering sense of loss clings to him, twisting him up inside and making it difficult to breathe. 

So Merlin rises instead, dressing with stiff movements, telling himself he doesn't know where he intends to go. He's halfway to Arthur's chambers before he even acknowledges it as his destination. Three steps from the door he realizes this is complete madness. He can't go to Arthur now. He shouldn't want to. But the pull holds him somewhere deep, a desperate desire to take those final three steps and press his palm to the wood of the door.

He turns, not quite running in the opposite direction. But distance doesn't help. He still won't be able to sleep.

He visits the dragon instead. 

The torch's flame crackles and murmurs in the darkness, familiar and strangely reassuring. There's normalcy in this, for all that there should be nothing _normal_ about nocturnal discourse with dragons. As Merlin descends the uneven steps beneath the dungeons, he feels more like himself than he has since waking in Arthur's bed.

The dragon is not hiding when Merlin arrives. He reclines lazily on his wonted perch, peering at Merlin through the shadows.

"You seem troubled, young warlock." 

There are times Merlin suspects the great dragon is teasing him, enjoying himself at Merlin's expense. This is not one of those times. There is nothing of amusement in the dragon's great, golden eyes. Just a terrifying focus as he curls forward on his pillar of rock and cocks his head to one side.

"It hasn't been my best day," Merlin admits. He fidgets with the torch but manages to meet the dragon's stare without flinching. "What do you know about soul magic?"

"I know that it is ancient and powerful, and that there has not been a living practitioner for some hundred years. I also know that what is written on the soul can never be unwritten." The dragon blinks, too much comprehension in the gold of its eyes. "Why do you ask?" 

Merlin's throat closes and it takes him several attempts to speak.

"Surely you already know." The dragon is not omnipotent, but his insight is a powerful magic all its own. Surely, with all his talk of coins and halves of a whole, he has seen _this_.

But the dragon only looks bemused. 

"Whatever you may believe, Merlin, I do not see everything." The dragon blinks at him and leans closer. 

Merlin swallows past the stubborn lump of emotion in his throat. He doesn't want to put what's happened into words. Gaius didn't judge him, but surely the dragon will.

But Merlin is all too aware of how little information he has. He can't squander the chance to learn more. 

"There was a goblet. Silver, carved all over with runes I didn't recognize. When Arthur touched it, he fell. Even Gaius couldn't revive him." He pauses, drops his voice lower. "Gaius says it was soul magic."

"And you, Merlin," the dragon says, more softly than Merlin has ever heard him speak. "Did you do anything when Arthur touched the goblet?"

"No. I wasn't there. I should have been, but I wasn't." Perhaps if he had been, things would have gone differently. Perhaps he could have kept Arthur from the goblet in the first place. "There was a circle of stone, and Arthur was standing alone inside it when he triggered the spell." He's not sure whether to feel relieved that the dragon seems unsurprised at this revelation. Perhaps the rules of this particular magic are more flexible than Gaius' sources describe. "It was only after he returned to Camelot that I could... I felt him. Calling to me."

"And did you go to him?" the dragon asks, and the question is somber and powerful. It takes Merlin several long, straining seconds to answer.

"Yes." 

"Then all I have told you, you can already sense for yourself."

"It's not enough," Merlin whispers.

"What more would you know?" The dragon cocks its head to one side, not taunting exactly, but challenging. Goading Merlin into confessing his true question.

"Why me?" Merlin demands, face heating. The question comes out louder than he intends, but he is exhausted and frustrated—his soul and body ache, and all he wants is to understand. The dragon shifts on its perch, as close as Merlin has ever seen him to taken aback, and Merlin presses, "Arthur loves Guinevere. So why did his soul call _me_?" 

"You are already bound to the prince in many ways, young warlock. Is one more really so surprising?"

"You're saying _this_ was our destiny?"

"I am saying no such thing." The dragon draws himself taller, strong claws curling over the stone edge of his perch. "But is it so very impossible for Arthur's soul to seek you above all others? You are his greatest protector. He is steeped in your magic. How many times have you laid down your lives for one another?"

"But Gaius said _willing_ souls. He said the magic should have required a ceremony, _vows_."

Golden eyes pierce straight through him, and the dragon says, "Tell me, Merlin. Truthfully. Is there any vow you would _not_ make for the young Pendragon?"

Merlin is silent, because he has already proven the answer to that question a dozen times over. He has given everything to his prince, without hesitation. Perhaps his soul already belonged to Arthur.

Perhaps that is the problem.

"You begin to understand," the dragon observes dryly.

"What do I do?" Merlin asks, bleak desperation creeping into his heart. He doesn't know how to approach a problem that cannot be remedied, and he knows Gaius and the dragon are right—there is no undoing the magic that has been done. He can't free Arthur from this bond.

"You do as you have always done. Your place is at Arthur's side, and there you must remain."

"What if he doesn't want me there?" Merlin asks, and the question is jagged glass in his throat. He hasn't dared ask this question even in the privacy of his own mind, and speaking it aloud is unfathomably painful. He hasn't seen Arthur since he left the prince's chambers, and it's all too possible he'll want nothing more to do with Merlin. The thought sticks in Merlin's stomach like fear, and the dragon's final words do nothing to reassure him.

"He needs you, young warlock. Now more than ever. You cannot let him push you away."

Merlin leaves feeling every bit as lost as before, and though he returns to his bed for what's left of the night, he doesn't sleep.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur sends away the servant that arrives to see to Merlin's duties. The mess of anger in his chest—most of it aimed directly at himself—makes it difficult to stay civil. He wants to snap and shout and order the girl from his sight. But she is young and quiet, and she's done nothing to merit his ire.

"May I at least bring you some breakfast, my lord?" she asks, hovering uncertainly at the door. Her eyes are cast respectfully downward, her entire posture subservient, and all Arthur wants is Merlin's unguarded smile and blatant insubordination.

"No," he says at last, turning towards the basin of water she carried in when she first stepped through the door. "I will not require anyone's services today. You may go." It's a firm dismissal, and the door clicks shut as Arthur dips his uninjured hand in the bowl.

The cool splash of water doesn't help. Anger still heats his face, and Arthur feels hollow inside. 

Arthur stands there, trapped in his own thoughts, and he is still staring down into the water basin when his door opens again. There is no knock requesting permission, and for an irrational moment he thinks Merlin has returned. His head snaps up, eyes seeking—

It is not Merlin but Morgana who glides through the door. She carries a tray of food and wine, performing with impossible grace a task far below her station. She nudges the door closed with the press of a hip, and it swings shut forcefully enough to latch. 

"Good morning," Arthur says tiredly. "By all means, do come on. Don't worry about knocking, no one else does." Merlin certainly doesn't, and he's the only someone Arthur can be bothered to think about right now.

"Don't be an infant," Morgana retorts, but the words lack their usual bite. She's treading carefully and pretending not to. Even were she not carrying a serving tray, Arthur would know she's come to allay her own worries. There are guarded shadows in the way she watches him, as she approaches and sets the tray beside the water basin. 

"I'm not hungry." Arthur turns from the food, not relishing the way the sight of it makes his stomach curl and growl. 

But Morgana catches his arm, and though she hasn't the strength to bully him into doing her will, Arthur allows himself to be dragged back to the table. She's glaring at him, her jaw set in familiar defiance, her entire face a stone wall of determination.

"You've been unconscious for days," she reminds him, letting go of his arm and raising her chin higher. "You need to eat."

"I can't." He doesn't want to explain to her that the thought of food only increases the nausea roiling in his gut. He doesn't want to explain that he feels wrong inside—or that he can't tell how much is his own angry guilt, how much is something else entirely, something he has barely begun to understand. He can't explain to her the feel of magic glowing like an ember somewhere so deep and private he has no name for it, and even if he could, he will not put her in needless danger by confiding this secret. He won't make her commit treason for him, and in any case the secret is not his alone to share. 

She watches him far too closely, knowing him better than anyone else could, and Arthur simply shakes his head.

"I can't," he repeats.

"Something to drink, then." Her voice is softer now, and she urges him to sit before the tray. Steady, delicate hands grasp the handle of the wine jug and pour him a drink, and he accepts it with reluctance. He grasps it too tightly, his injured palm stinging briefly beneath clean wrappings, but he doesn't change hands. Morgana rounds the table and sits opposite him, steepling her fingers atop the heavy wood. 

" _Drink_ ," she admonishes when he hesitates. He raises the glass to his lips, and she reaches for the tray, plucking a strawberry from his plate and watching him take a long, slow swallow.

His stomach doesn't protest the way he expects, and he realizes only now just how parched he is. He drains the goblet before setting it down, and doesn't protest when Morgana takes and fills it a second time. But instead of putting the wine back in his hand, she proffers the strawberry she is still holding. When he stares at it without comprehension, she just arches an eyebrow and presses the fruit into his palm. 

Her meaning comes clear. And much as Arthur doesn't want to obey, he is still thirsty. He knows he won't get the wine glass until he concedes this victory. He raises the strawberry to his mouth with unwonted caution and eats it in one bite, braced against the bile he expects to rise in his throat.

But like the wine, the strawberry goes down more smoothly than he expects. He _is_ hungry, he realizes, feeling an utter fool. He is famished. His stomach still roils, but now there is something of desperation in it, and he turns his attention to the heavily laden dishes. 

Morgana is silent as Arthur methodically consumes every morsel on the tray, but when he reaches for the refilled wine goblet, she stops him with a hand on his wrist.

"Arthur." Uncommon kindness softens her eyes. He and Morgana are usually so careless with each other, affection camouflaged beneath childish bickering, and Arthur finds himself overwhelmed by the unguarded look on her face when she says, "Tell me what's troubling you."

Her sincerity is so potent that Arthur nearly does, better reason be damned. But he checks the impulse and raises the glass in his hand, and her touch falls aside.

"Why would something be troubling me?" he asks as he raises the wine to his lips.

Morgana looks unimpressed. The eyebrow she arches at him this time is worthy of Gaius. 

"Arthur. Please. You can't spend your life assuming everyone in the world is as gullible as you." But even the hint of mockery falls flat. Arthur realizes he has to tell her _something_ , though there is little enough truth he can spare. He stalls, drinking his wine slowly, struggling to sort his thoughts. If he is uncomfortable lying to his father, he fears he will prove completely incapable of lying to Morgana. He has never been untruthful about anything that mattered, or anything she wouldn't see immediately through, and he doesn't know where to begin now.

Perhaps a lie is not the answer. Perhaps part of a truth is better than none at all.

"Did my father tell you what happened?" 

"Only that you were enchanted. And then that you were well again." She swallows, a fleeting flash of anger passing behind her eyes, there and then gone. "He wouldn't let me see you."

"Those were Gaius' instructions." Arthur sets the goblet down. "He feared what I might do in my condition." 

"You were unconscious." Morgana's voice is dry with skepticism. 

"Yes," Arthur concedes. "But his worries were not unfounded."

"I don't understand." 

"Merlin." The name tastes of fire and guilt on Arthur's tongue.

"Merlin's not here," Morgana says, still clearly confused, clearly not following Arthur's cryptic meaning. 

"Exactly." Arthur pushes the empty tray aside and clasps his hands on the table. "Merlin is not here, because he's with Gaius." There it is, the spark of comprehension alight in her eyes, the recognition of dark shadows in his tone. Merlin is not absent because Gaius needed him for something, and that much at least Morgana clearly reads in his words.

"Why is he with Gaius?" she asks, brow furrowing in concern. Arthur opens his mouth to answer, and finds the words refuse to come. He has to clear his throat and look away, has to try again, and even then his voice is gritty.

"Because I hurt him." With his good hand he reaches for the nearly empty jug of wine, ignoring the burn behind his eyes. His hand trembles almost imperceptibly as he pours, less the result of wrought emotion and more the strain his body has been through in the past few days, between the enchantment and the lack of food. He sets the empty jug aside with a heavy thunk and still doesn't meet Morgana's eyes. 

"But Gaius is caring for him," Morgana prompts, though even in his peripheral vision Arthur can tell she looks stricken. "Merlin will be all right." She is clearly trying to tailor her words into a confident assertion, but they rise in pitch at the end, making a question out of the statement.

"Yes," Arthur says, and prays it is not a lie. If he is wrong, he will never forgive himself.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The next question—the impossible question—is what happens now?

The answer is, surprisingly, nothing. Arthur crawls into bed that night wondering if he'll have to accept another servant after all, and wakes to piercing sunlight and Merlin's familiar voice.

"Rise and shine, my lord." There's an undeniable note of strain in the words, but when Arthur opens his eyes he can't deny what he sees. Merlin is here. Merlin is _smiling_. Merlin has apparently brought breakfast, because when he sees that Arthur is awake he bustles away from the window—the window through which a stiff morning breeze blows, because the glass has yet to be replaced. 

"Merlin." Arthur sits up slowly, apprehension tight in his chest. His eyes track Merlin's every movement, mindful of each pause, each shift in stance. Merlin is moving better than he was two morning's previous, but it doesn't stop Arthur worrying. 

"Sire?" Merlin sets down the pitcher and turns to watch Arthur rise from the bed. He holds his hands behind his back, the pose a mockery of subservience, and this moment feels so familiar Arthur's heart aches. The air is cool on his bare chest, the stone floor chilly beneath his feet, and he approaches Merlin cautiously.

"What are you doing here?"

"Bringing you breakfast." Merlin darts a look from Arthur to the food and back again. "Aren't you hungry?" Arthur is more than just hungry. His appetite has made a grand resurgence since Morgana forced him to break his unintended fast, and his stomach grumbles noisily, earning a more genuine smile from Merlin.

But Arthur doesn't approach the table and the offering of food. More than nourishment, he craves Merlin's proximity, though he refuses to yield to such impulses. There's a rising throb that he recognizes now, magic with a will of its own. The magic, too, wants to be nearer to Merlin, wants it almost more strongly than Arthur does. 

He has a sudden flash of memory, a dream from the night before. Merlin beneath him, gasping Arthur's name, candle flames surging into bright, blinding columns of light around them, as Arthur—

Arthur blinks and shoves the scattered images from his mind so violently the effort leaves him scowling.

"Are you all right?" Merlin asks, taking a step towards him.

"Fine," Arthur lies, telling himself to dodge away and instead staying exactly where he is. He doesn't protest when Merlin steps too close and peers into his eyes, like he's trying to understand more than Arthur is willing to say. A quizzical look creases his brow and turns his mouth down at the corners, and Arthur's own mouth thins into a frustrated line. 

When Merlin finally leaves off staring him down, it's clearly not because he found what he was looking for. He appears every bit as frustrated as Arthur feels, and though the sight shouldn't be reassuring, it undeniably is.

"How's your hand," Merlin asks, bright enough to change the subject at least.

"Better," Arthur says. It's meant to be another lie, but as the word leaves his mouth he flexes the injured hand and realizes it's true. His hand _does_ feel better this morning. Far better than it should. Arthur has been trained in combat since birth. He has ample experience with bruises and scrapes and deeper cuts. He knows how long his body takes to heal from any number of physical harms, and he knows how his injured palm should feel after only two days.

He holds his hand up and for a moment just stares uselessly at the linen wrapping. It takes him several seconds to think of unwinding the bandage, and he takes care as he unbinds his palm. 

It's not just that the wound is clean and uninfected. The jagged line remains, as do the stitches from Gaius, but the flesh has already begun to mend, and the sting of recent harm is only a subtle itch. Arthur stares and doesn't know what to make of it. He flexes the hand carefully, and the pull of muscle aches, but only dully. It doesn't hurt the way it should.

"This isn't right," he says.

"Perhaps it wasn't as deep as you thought?" Merlin suggests, sounding like he doesn't believe the possibility himself.

"Or perhaps there is something else at work." Arthur flexes the hand again, then starts to rebandage it—tries, at any rate. It's trickier to manage putting a bandage _on_ with one hand than taking it off, and he fumbles the attempt several times. Merlin huffs an impatient sound and swats Arthur's efforts aside, taking the length of linen from him. Instead of getting straight to work, he piles it on the table behind him and reaches into his pocket for one that is clean and fresh.

"Let me," Merlin murmurs, curling his fingers around Arthur's wrist and guiding him by touch. Merlin moves confidently as he begin's winding the fresh bandage around Arthur's palm, well accustomed to such work after so much time helping Gaius'. Arthur focuses on the feel of fresh, cool linen on his skin and does not think about the fact that Merlin is touching him.

"You know this isn't natural, Merlin," Arthur says softly. Merlin pauses, but it's only an instant's hesitation, and Arthur continues, "Gaius said he needed to research longterm effects. Perhaps this is one of them."

"What, you healing faster than normal?" Merlin's head is ducked, focused on his work, but Arthur realizes with a jolt that he sounds _pleased_. The smile in his voice is unmistakable.

" _What_?" Arthur demands when Merlin finishes with the bandage and raises his head, still smiling.

"Nothing." The smile dampens somewhat. "Just... With your talent for getting stabbed, clawed, poisoned and wounded in interesting ways, I can't help thinking maybe this magic is a blessing after all."

_Don't say that_ , Arthur wants to snap. _Don't make this sound so easy after what I did to you_. He holds his tongue, because no good can come of speaking the words aloud. Or of pointing out that in Camelot, _no_ magic can be a blessing, not with the danger of Uther's decree looming over their heads. Arthur has burdened Merlin enough—he has saddled Merlin with his very soul—and he has no intention of putting these thoughts on Merlin's shoulders as well.

But Merlin must see too honest a glint of them in his eyes, because the last traces of smile vanish, leaving an expression that is somber and uncertain and impossibly young. 

"Arthur." Merlin's grip tightens where he still hasn't released Arthur. "You can't continue to blame yourself. This magic was beyond either of us."

Arthur tugs his hand free and tries to turn aside.

"Please go," he says, clenching both hands tightly to keep them at is sides, relishing the discomfort he elicits from his injured palm. "You shouldn't be here, Merlin. You should be resting, taking some time off. Two days is hardly sufficient, considering what you've been through. I'll send for you when I need you."

"No you won't." Merlin's voice is entirely too knowing, and he won't let Arthur turn his back—he darts into Arthur's direct line of sight, jaw set stubbornly. "Arthur, please. Don't send me away. I need to be here. With you."

"And I need you to be anywhere else." Arthur's glare is a potent weapon on the battlefield and the training ground, but Merlin doesn't seem to notice it. He's busy squaring his shoulders, looking Arthur straight in the eye, not backing down. He wouldn't be Merlin if he knew when to back down.

"It was an enchantment," Merlin says. "You would never hurt me."

And Arthur is so terrified—so scared Merlin is wrong—that something inside him snaps at the words, at the confident warmth in Merlin's voice. He reacts instinctively, not sure until he's got his hands on Merlin exactly what he is trying to prove. He grasps Merlin's arms and shoves him hard, pinning him against the edge of the table. Angry satisfaction pulses at the way Merlin's eyes fly wide, pupils dilating, and it's almost enough to drown out the instant surge of guilt.

"Are you so very sure?" Arthur hisses. He is too close, and he holds Merlin there for several seconds, making his point. 

But instead of conceding defeat, Merlin just squares his shoulders, raises his chin and says, "Yes." 

Arthur releases him abruptly, stepping back and watching Merlin warily. From the look in Merlin's eyes, he knows he's just won _something_ , but even Arthur couldn't explain exactly what. Before he can argue further, Merlin's expression softens and he pushes away from the table.

"Please eat something, Sire." He gestures at the empty chair, the plates of food. Wine has sloshed over the edge of the goblet to spread across the table, but the vessel is miraculously upright. Breakfast still looks every bit as appealing as it did before Arthur knocked Merlin against the table, and even the twinge of guilt in his chest doesn't lessen his appetite.

"You're really not going to leave, are you," Arthur realizes numbly, finally moving to settle himself at the table. 

"Not unless you plan on calling the guards to escort me out," Merlin says, and the bright challenge in his voice only sounds a little bit forced. "But if it's all the same to you, I'd rather _not_ spend the day in the stocks." 

Arthur sighs, tired and out of ideas, and tucks in to the generous breakfast before him.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Arthur knows this is a dream.

He knows because the sharp edges are already blurring towards wakefulness, morning encroaching on the imagery that Arthur is stubbornly clinging to. He knows because it is exactly like the dream he had last night, and the night before that. The details are mutable, but the dream is still the same, friction and heat and naked skin.

And he knows because Merlin would never reach for him like this, or beg Arthur for more. Merlin would not kiss him, mouth skilled and eager and inviting. 

Merlin would never find his way into Arthur's bed willingly, but the knowledge is immaterial, and Arthur clings to the dream even as it fractures and fades.

"Rise and shine!" Merlin's voice shatters the last lingering images, dissolving them like a bucket of icy water upended. Chilly guilt creeps forward, but already the feeling is less potent than it should be. After a week of dreams, and nearly a week of waking from them to the sight of Merlin—standing beside the repaired windows, heavy curtains thrown wide in his hands—Arthur finds himself too worn down for proper remorse.

"If I ran you through with my sword, would I be able to sleep another hour?" Arthur gripes, but his heart isn't in it.

"You could always give it a try," Merlin retorts far too brightly, smile manic in the glaring sunlight. "But I think slaughtering your faultless manservant might be a bad way to begin your morning."

" _Might_ be," Arthur snorts, and pretends to seriously consider the possibility. "No, I suppose you're right. And in any case, killing people tends to quicken the blood. I could hardly sleep after such exertion." Merlin is still smiling, a wide, almost smug expression, and Arthur rolls his eyes and tosses the heavy bedclothes aside. His waking arousal has abated enough to move without giving himself away.

"Your breakfast, Sire." Merlin darts before him to the table and fusses with the dishes. 

Arthur takes the time to pull a tunic over his head, and when he approaches the table Merlin is pouring cool water into a cup for him.

Arthur doesn't intend to touch him. It's not until he registers warm fabric beneath his palm—the thin shirt at the small of Merlin's back—that he even realizes he's reached out. He freezes, startled at his own actions, his utter lack of self control—

But instead of shying away, Merlin presses unmistakably _in_ to the uninvited touch. Arthur can't tell if the reaction is intentional, but it doesn't matter. He jerks his hand away, pulls his chair out with too much force, and sits in an uncomfortable rush. Only after a stubborn minute has passed does he risk a glance at Merlin.

Merlin is still holding the pitcher of water, and he watches Arthur with an uncertain expression.

Arthur doesn't apologize. The words ' _I'm sorry_ ' stick to his tongue and refuse to be spoken.

"Merlin, why don't you relight the fire?" 

Arthur isn't actually cold. The repaired windows have returned his chambers to their usual moderate temperature. But lighting a fire in the hearth will put Merlin clear across the room, for several minutes most likely, and it is distance Arthur sorely needs.

Merlin nods, and wordlessly sets the pitcher down beside Arthur's elbow. He fishes in his pocket for flint and steel as he crosses the room, and Arthur watches every step. He watches Merlin crouch before the broad stone hearth, blocking the dead embers and fresh wood from view. Several times there rises the sharp, grating scratch of steel and flint. 

When the fire lights, Merlin's body is still blocking any view of his work—but the fire catches and grows quickly.

Arthur feels a strange sensation almost simultaneously, a skidding twist of magic in his chest. He has become gradually more familiar with the way the magic feels inside him, muted and constant, but this is different. It's been over a week since that disastrous night, and he's never felt anything like _this_ before. It feels as though the magic itself is responding to something.

Why it should take an interest in Merlin lighting a simple fire, Arthur can't fathom.

When Merlin rises and turns, he gives an almost imperceptible start, apparently surprised to find Arthur watching him.

Arthur forces his own breathing steady, resists the heat that wants to spread across his cheeks. He will not acknowledge his own guilty embarrassment. He quirks an eyebrow, as though to ask if there's a problem, and Merlin wipes his palms on his breeches.

"Is everything all right?" Merlin asks, approaching Arthur with unaccustomed caution. "Do you want me to bring you something else to eat?" His glance indicates the cuts of cold meat and cheese still sitting untouched. Arthur's stomach growls, reminding him that he _is_ , in fact, famished. He shakes his head and pulls the plate towards him.

"No. This is fine. You may go, Merlin."

"But—"

" _Go_ , Merlin," Arthur snaps more sharply. "And take my armor with you. I need it polished by this afternoon."

"Yes, Sire." Merlin even graces Arthur with a nod that could be mistaken for deference.

But he hesitates at the door, laden as he is, and he gives Arthur a long, searching look.

Arthur glares down at his nearly empty plate and pretends he doesn't notice. He doesn't look up until Merlin leaves, door slamming heavily closed behind him.


	6. Chapter 6

By the time Merlin's routine finally feels routine again, several weeks have grudgingly passed. 

The raw edges inside him are healing, and the unfamiliar magic has come to feel like it belongs to him. It's become something familiar and intimate, _part_ of him, in a way he can't believe ever felt unnatural. It's a broader awareness—of the world, of himself, of _Arthur_ —and a deeper warmth that Merlin can't put into words. He's tried, but Gaius just looks at him too sadly, confusion tinged with quiet concern. Merlin hates seeing that look on the Gaius' face, so he hasn't tried again.

He doesn't explain it to Arthur either. Partly because he can't hope to do so without confessing his magic—a truth he is now quite certain Arthur has managed not to stumble onto. Partly because sometimes, when he catches Arthur watching him—eyes dark, expression strange and distant, yet startlingly intense—Merlin thinks he already knows.

It grows on Merlin slowly, over the course of several days, but eventually he realizes that his awareness of Arthur is an almost tangible presence. He's always had certain instincts surrounding his prince—they've helped him keep the prat alive more times than not—but this is different. This is an actual, _physical_ sense of Arthur's proximity, sharp and intuitive, and Merlin hasn't the first clue what it means. 

The morning Gaius makes him late with errands, Merlin has no reason to know Arthur is stalking the southern wall of the citadel. Arthur wears the almost-glower of a man who is determinedly _not_ sulking—a crown prince never sulks, or so he has insisted to Merlin on more than one occasion—and he stares in unmasked shock when Merlin finds him at the parapet. 

"I didn't tell anyone where I would be," he protests, though it takes him an extra moment to school his expression into an appropriate scowl.

"You must have done." Merlin tries (and mostly fails) to smother his own smug grin. "Otherwise how did I find you?" 

Arthur mutters petulant curses as they move back inside, and Merlin wonders what it means that he found Arthur at such a deliberate distance. Normally Merlin's failure to wake him of a morning would result in an irate prince beating down Gaius' door. 

Merlin speaks more softly when he says, "I _am_ sorry I'm late." 

Arthur doesn't respond, but the tension in his spine eases fractionally, and Merlin is heartened enough to match Arthur's pace and jostle him with an elbow. Arthur shoves back hard enough to tip Merlin against the wall, and then it's almost a scuffle, almost a race, and that might even be a smile edging past the scowl on Arthur's face.

That night isn't the first Merlin dreams about Arthur, but it is the first (since the goblet, since that night, since their souls tangled inextricably) that the dream is of warmth and security. Of late, Merlin has been terrified of Arthur sending him away—for his own protection, or worse, for the betrayal of Merlin's greatest secret—and those fears have crept into his sleep, into the quiet hours of night when doubt holds court in Merlin's heart. He has dreamt Arthur discovering the truth and reacting in a dozen ways, none of them good. Fear, anger, disgust. Even awake, Merlin wishes the secrets weren't necessary; he can only imagine how betrayed Arthur will one day feel, how little he'll think Merlin trusts him, when in truth there is no one he trusts more—no one who _matters_ more than Arthur.

But the new magic, the tangle of their souls, has settled and smoothed, and in the weeks since Arthur woke he's gradually stopped holding Merlin at a distance. Today when Merlin found him at the southern wall, there was something almost of relief in Arthur's eyes. As though he feared Merlin had _chosen_ not to come, and was relieved to discover otherwise. 

As though he genuinely wants Merlin at his side.

Perhaps it's no surprise that tonight Merlin dreams of Arthur asking him to stay. Arthur's hand on his shoulder is firm but kind, and the door to Arthur's chambers swings shut as if by magic. Fire twists high in the hearth, but that isn't why Merlin is warm. 

Arthur doesn't kiss him, but he does tug Merlin around and touch their foreheads together, eyes closing as he raises his hands to frame Merlin's face. Merlin watches the play of firelight across Arthur's features, vision blurring. He presses his palm over Arthur's heart and finds it beating too fast, feels the rise and fall of breath in Arthur's chest. Beautifully alive.

"Don't leave," Arthur whispers without opening his eyes. "Please."

Merlin fists his fingers in the fabric of Arthur's shirt. "I'm right here, Sire. I'm not going anywhere." 

Arthur breathes a low sound, so full of need it _hurts_ , and all Merlin wants is to be closer, to show Arthur that this is exactly where he belongs. Because Arthur will be a great king one day, and Merlin's destiny is to stay, to help, to protect Arthur from the enemies that would see him fail.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

It isn't only the prince's proximity Merlin feels when the king summons Arthur into private council.

He doesn't know what they're discussing behind those closed doors. Worse, there's every chance Arthur won't tell him, even later. Not if the prince's expression when he entered the council chambers is any indication. 

But trepidation swells too quickly in Merlin's chest, a sensation at once familiar and distant, and after a confused moment he realizes why. 

The feeling isn't him. It's Arthur, emotion mounting so sharply Merlin feels every surge of anger as if it were his own. He can picture the careful control in Arthur's stance, the tightly contained energy and rigid spine. He can imagine exactly what expression Arthur is wearing on his face now, a flat, furious stare that even Merlin might fear if it were ever directed at him. Whatever Uther is telling him behind those doors, Arthur isn't happy about it.

Merlin wonders if he should be alarmed by this uninvited glimpse into his prince's head, but finds he can't even summon up the energy to be surprised. He'll certainly ask Gaius about it; perhaps later, though. Gaius has found little enough of help in his research; it seems the completed ritual is a phenomenon rarely documented and nearly impossible to track down.

Belatedly, Merlin wonders if he should tell _Arthur_. It seems unfair somehow, to keep this new knowledge to himself, and of course Arthur would want to know. 

But Merlin hates the thought of Arthur trying to guard himself more carefully. He already holds his thoughts and feelings so private—Merlin is learning him better than most, learning to read further into the silences and pointed glowers—but what if Arthur shuts down completely? What if, by sheer force of will, he manages to make himself a mystery even to Merlin?

The heavy doors swing open long before Merlin has resolved this new conundrum, and Arthur storms into the corridor, face dark with exactly the expression Merlin expected. He doesn't acknowledge Merlin as he stalks past, but even without the tug of _Arthur_ in his mind Merlin would understand the implicit summons. He follows a pace behind until they're well away from Uther and the guards, then hurries to Arthur's side.

He opens his mouth to ask any of a dozen questions, but the resulting surge of exasperation and ire is so intense that he immediately changes his mind. Arthur gives him a strange look when the questions don't come, but quickly returns his silent focus to the corridor before them. His strides are quick and determined, and several courtiers have to dart aside to avoid collision as the prince storms past. Merlin offers apologetic looks where he can, but mostly he just tries to keep up. 

It's a relief when at last they reach Arthur's chambers, and Merlin closes the door behind them.

Arthur moves immediately to the hearth, and his posture is painfully tight as he braces his palms on the stone and leans forward. He stares down into the banked embers, his gaze fierce, his posture tense. He looks like a weapon unsheathed, all sharp edges and waiting wrath.

Merlin leans one shoulder against the heavy wood of the door, surprised at his own indecision. He is still anxious for answers, and Merlin's first instinct has always been to simply open his mouth and say what he's thinking. It's gotten him in trouble more than once (more than a dozen times, really), but he's always suspected that Arthur secretly appreciates his candor. 

Voicing his questions now _might_ earn him answers. But the way Arthur is standing, the distance in his eyes and anger in his stance, make it just as likely that he'll clam up and tell Merlin to mind his own business. No amount of wheedling or taunting will draw the confession out of him then.

With difficulty, Merlin holds his tongue. He crosses to the hearth with quiet steps and positions himself at Arthur's side. The rightness of it, the sense that this is exactly where he belongs, rushes beneath Merlin's skin, and he edges closer, watching Arthur's face for a sign of... anything. 

Arthur must notice, perpetually aware of his surroundings as he is, but long moments pass before he tilts his head to acknowledge Merlin. Arthur's brow is creased with the force of his frown, and Merlin finds himself even more aware now of the raw intensity of Arthur's emotions. The anger, the frustration—the confusion as he realizes Merlin is being _quiet_ and tries to figure out what to make of that. Merlin, for his part, tries not to sway nearer; he is already standing too close, praying Arthur either won't notice or doesn't mind. He reminds himself to be patient and holds himself as still as he can.

"My father has received reports of raiding parties along the northern borders," Arthur says at last. "Bandits, or so the evidence suggests."

"The king believes otherwise?" Merlin asks softly, and he can't help it, he's stepping closer. Arthur doesn't stiffen at the brush of Merlin's arm, but it's possible he's simply too tense already and can't pull his spine any straighter. He doesn't take his eyes off Merlin, 

"The damage has been too great, the attacked villages too strategic for coincidence." A muscle in Arthur's jaw works, and his throat moves in a hard swallow. "The patrols that reported the attacks were unable to find a single survivor. Four villages razed to the ground." Icy rage twists beneath the words, and beneath Merlin's skin where Arthur's soul pulses, and Merlin knows Arthur will not sleep tonight. He'll be too distracted mourning his people, the kingdom he loves more than anything. No one man can protect them all, but that will never stop Arthur from trying.

"When do we ride out?" Merlin asks, mind already jumping ahead to the necessary supplies, the horses, the provisions—

But Arthur doesn't look pleased—not like he should at the prospect of leading his men in search of justice—and Merlin's lips thin into an uncertain line.

"We do not ride out at all," Arthur mutters darkly. "Sir Leon will lead a patrol to the north, to find and punish those responsible. I am to remain in Camelot."

"I... don't understand." Arthur should be leading the patrol. Leon is more than competent, but Arthur is crown prince and first knight of Camelot. It is his duty—his honor—to avenge and protect his people.

Arthur is silent far too long, but at last he says, "There were signs that the bandits acted with the aid of sorcery." 

Now Merlin understands why the council was private—why Uther demanded to speak to his son in closed chambers. Because Uther does not listen to reason when magic is involved, and because he knew Arthur would never quietly accept an order to stay behind. Merlin has seen a dozen variations on this particular clash of wills—he could feel it for himself from the corridor—and he has to admit Uther was probably right to meet with his son alone, even if he is wrong about everything else.

Merlin doesn't ask how there can be evidence of sorcery when all four villages were razed to the ground. Instead he asks the far more important question.

"I'll start packing then, shall I?" He smiles when Arthur gives him a sharp look. "D'you think we'll have any trouble sneaking out of the palace tonight?" 

"Undoubtedly," Arthur says, still looking surprised enough that Merlin wonders if he ought to be offended. 

Merlin nods, deciding not to call Arthur out on his lack of faith. Overall, his life is simpler if Arthur keeps underestimating him. Merlin turns without another word, back to mentally packing for the journey, amending his plans to include a heavy dose of stealth—

" _Merlin_." Arthur's hand closes on his arm before he manages a step towards the door. Strong fingers curl warmly around Merlin's elbow and draw him up short—tugging Merlin back, tugging him _closer_ , and Merlin stares down at Arthur's hand for a long, surprised moment before thinking to meet Arthur's eyes. The cryptic look he finds there could mean anything. It could mean ' _you're completely mad_ ', or ' _this is a terrible idea_ ' or even (though exceedingly unlikely) ' _thank you_.' 

Merlin can't respond if he doesn't know what Arthur is trying to say, and so he holds patiently silent. Arthur's fingers are gentle enough, but distractingly warm through the fabric of Merlin's sleeve, and Arthur's eyes seem restless on Merlin's face, not quite sure where to look.

"Never mind," Arthur announces abruptly, releasing Merlin and stepping back. There's something awkward in the suddenness of the movement, a guarded self-consciousness. The overwhelming sense of _Arthur_ fades from Merlin's senses with the extra distance—with the sudden lack of contact—but he still feels something too much like guilt rolling off his prince. He wants to protest that Arthur _can_ touch him, that he doesn't mind, but the words stick in his throat and all he can do is watch Arthur withdraw.

"Go on, then." Arthur glowers, and the moment shatters, leaving only awkwardness in its wake. "Make the necessary preparations. We depart at nightfall." 

"Yes, my lord." Merlin retreats with all speed, and pretends not to notice Arthur staring at him all the way out of the room.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Sneaking out of the castle is almost too easy. There are no guards outside the prince's door—perhaps Arthur had the forethought to let his father think he won this round.

Arthur keeps touching him as they make their way out of the citadel. It's the easiest way to communicate silently, the press of a hand at his elbow, a nudge at his arm, fingers curling tightly around his shoulder to drag him into the shadows.

A dozen practical touches that Merlin doesn't mind and wouldn't protest even if he did. But there are other touches, too, and these not so practical. 

They're both hidden in deep shadow as a patrol marches by the main gate, and they've nothing to do but wait in crouching silence. There is too little space between them, and Merlin shivers at the warmth of Arthur's breath ruffling his hair. Arthur has no reason to curl cool fingers around the back of Merlin's neck—he can't need the extra balance, braced as they both are against chill stone—and perhaps he doesn't even realize what he's doing.

Merlin keeps breathing, keeps watching as the patrol circles back the way it came. He ignores the warmth in his own face, keeps still for fear Arthur will realize and stop.

There's no mistaking the instant Arthur notices. There's a hitch in the prince's breath, just as the patrol disappears around a corner across the courtyard, and the contact vanishes. Merlin wishes he still had some sense of Arthur's emotions, but that awareness has faded in the hours since Uther's council. 

They make it to the lower town before they're forced to huddle again in shadows. Merlin startles at the press of Arthur's palm at the small of his back. Arthur's touch is warm now—his whole body inclines towards Merlin in the narrow alley between darkened homes—and Merlin stares at the passing knights, forcing himself to hold perfectly still and not lean in to the touch. Arthur is again obviously unaware, and it can do them no good for Merlin to startle him into recognition.

This time, by the time the clanking of armored steps has faded, Arthur still hasn't noticed. The heat of his hand vanishes as thoughtlessly as it reached out to Merlin in the first place, and Arthur slips out of their hiding place and moves further down the street. 

They are hours out of the city before either of them speaks, shadows heavy around them.

"They'll have noticed I'm gone by now," Arthur announces in a crisp, matter of fact tone.

Merlin doesn't ask where Arthur intends to make camp. They won't be sleeping tonight. Uther will send riders out the second he realizes his son has disobeyed him, and the more distance Arthur puts between himself and Camelot the better. They must make good time if they are to stay ahead of the knights that will inevitably follow.

Merlin lets Arthur ride farther ahead, falling deliberately behind and twisting in his saddle to glance behind. The trail they're leaving is obvious enough that even he can see it in the generous moonlight, and he imagines Sir Leon riding out behind them, following with laughable ease.

" _Andslyht_ ," he whispers, magic twisting warmly inside him. A wind rises behind his horse, a violent surge, scattering leaves and obscuring their trail farther back than Merlin can see.

"What was that?" Arthur asks, and Merlin freezes.

When he shifts again in his saddle, facing forward and trying not to look guilty, he discovers that Arthur has stopped his horse a short distance ahead. He can't possibly have heard Merlin speak, soft as the spell was, but just the same wary concern darkens his expression. He watches Merlin approach, brow furrowed and hands steady on his reins.

"What was what?" Merlin asks, drawing his horse alongside Arthur's. Now more than before he wishes he knew what Arthur was feeling, because he can't tell if that's suspicion in Arthur's eyes or something else entirely. His own expression is a deliberate blank, and Merlin holds his breath, feeling suddenly unsteady.

Arthur scowls and glares at the path ahead. But there's something pensive in his reticence, and a telling clench to his jaw, like he's genuinely trying to put words to the sensation. 

Eventually, he shakes his head instead.

"Nothing. Never mind."

Then Arthur spurs his horse to motion, and Merlin can only follow.


	7. Chapter 7

The bandits are a farce, sure enough. They move with too much discipline, giving themselves away as knights in slovenly disguise. The question is, who sent them?

And despite the reports from Uther's reconnoissance, they _don't_ have a sorcerer with them; they have three. Arthur barely has time to count them before a spiral of flame, clearly magical, flies at his head. 

Merlin is there before Arthur can react, shoving him aside—and when did _Merlin_ , of all people, develop the reflexes to catch Arthur flat-footed—putting himself directly in danger like the idiot he is. Arthur scrambles to regain his footing. He can't _see_ Merlin through the rush of flame, but he knows Merlin is close. The knowledge twists tight and solid in his chest, and Arthur rushes towards heat and light—

An unexpected blow catches him from behind, and the world goes black before he hits the ground.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

He wakes to a splitting headache, blinding sunlight, and the wrong face hovering over him in unmasked concern.

" _Leon_!" Arthur sits up too fast, and his aching skull protests sharply. He swallows back nausea and a vicious wave of vertigo, twisting in place and already searching. "Where's Merlin?"

Not dead. He can't be dead. He _isn't_ dead, Arthur realizes. He knows with the same incautious certainty that always tells him when Merlin is close. He can sense the truth in the throb of his own heart, the pulse of magic beating a matching rhythm alongside. Merlin's soul. Still alive, still close. Arthur twists the other direction, rising shakily to his knees as he follows that feeling.

"Sire—" Leon's hand on his shoulder is more concern than restraint, and he doesn't try to interfere when Arthur at last finds what he's looking for. Merlin is barely ten feet away, slumped unconscious on the ground and curled awkwardly on his side. Arthur can't see Merlin's face from this angle,, and he scrambles impatiently forward. Leon follows, crouches close as Arthur sinks to his knees and tugs Merlin onto his back.

He fears the worst; he can't imagine how Merlin survived the twisting rush of flame, and even more impossible is the idea that Merlin somehow avoided the brunt of the heat. Arthur is expecting charred skin, irreparable damage. But he is also hoping—desperately hoping—that whatever wounds Merlin has sustained, they are not mortal.

But Merlin is barely hurt, and Arthur exhales shakily at the instant surge of relief. There are burns on one side of Merlin's face, on the backs of his hands, but they are nothing to what Arthur feared. Even without Gaius here to reassure him, Arthur knows Merlin will heal. He thanks a God he rarely believes in and gives Merlin's shoulder a shake.

Merlin's eyes remain shut, his breathing steady, and Arthur stubbornly does not panic. Merlin will wake. Meanwhile, Arthur forces himself to raise his eyes and meet Leon's worried scrutiny. A dozen other knights of Camelot circle the clearing with wordless purpose, gathering the dead—it looks like not a single bandit has survived—and investigating what's left of the enemy camp.

"What happened?" Arthur asks.

"We arrived to find you captured, Sire. The bandits were taking down their camp. They clearly intended to take you with them, whether to kill or to ransom I do not know."

"And Merlin?" Arthur hasn't managed to stop touching Merlin. His hand remains curled too tightly around Merlin's shoulder, despite the stubbornness with which Merlin does not wake.

"As you see," Leon says with a nod. "The bandits seemed to think he was dead."

Arthur's jaw clenches, throat going tight, but he is stronger than this. He meets Leon's eyes and says, "They were not bandits."

"No," Leon agrees. He indicates the clearing with a tilt of his head. "The men are searching for any evidence that may tell us who they really were." 

"And what of the sorcerers?"

Leon gives him a blank look, startlement plain in the rise of his eyebrows. His posture straightens and he curls his fingers unconsciously around the pommel of the sword at his belt. Arthur suddenly wishes fervently that he had his own sword to hand, for all the good a mortal weapon would do against a single sorcerer, let alone a three of them capable of commanding fire itself. 

"We encountered no sorcerers, my lord. Only the bandits, and all of them are now dead." 

"There were three sorcerers. They'd have killed me if..." Arthur honestly doesn't know how to finish this sentence. He'd be dead if Merlin hadn't moved so fast, if Merlin weren't an idiot, if Merlin hadn't— 

But what could Merlin possibly have done? 

Leon is still wearing an expression of shadowed incomprehension, watching Arthur warily.

"Upon my word, Sire. There were no sorcerers when we discovered you." He doesn't suggest Arthur might be mistaken. Arthur is not his father; he does not see sorcery in every shadow. But the uncertainty leaves uncomfortable questions. If the sorcerers are not here, then where have they gone? Perhaps they fled at the first sign of reinforcements from Camelot—but fled in what direction, and to what purpose?

There is little enough Arthur can do about it now, and he turns his focus towards other matters.

"Did we lose anyone?" he asks. He has not seen the Pendragon crest anywhere among the dead, but he has no way of knowing how far the fighting spread from this clearing. 

"Sir Ector and Sir Sagramore were wounded, but they are well enough to ride." 

"Good." Arthur stands on legs that feel a great deal steadier than they did moments before. "We depart for Camelot immediately. My father will be expecting word."

"Your father will be furious," Leon says, with the faintest hint of a smile. It should not be possible to convey both reprimand and approval in so simple a sentence, but Leon has many talents. 

He is also right. It's a conversation Arthur is not looking forward to.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Merlin has still not woken when they approach Camelot's main gate. He's draped securely across the front of Arthur's horse, though Leon has more than once offered assistance. Merlin's breathing remains steady, despite the bumpy journey, and the only thing allowing Arthur the semblance of calm is the fact that Merlin is close at hand. Close enough to touch.

The relative quiet of their ride back to Camelot has given Arthur far too much time for introspection, and he is painfully aware that something is wrong. It is not physical exertion or the relatively minor wounds he has suffered that prevent Merlin from waking. It's something else, something _deeper_ —something Arthur can only sense through the magic that binds them together more intimately with each passing day.

But beyond the lingering sense of wrongness, Arthur can't decipher what he is feeling. Even if he could, he wouldn't be able to help. The magic pulses under his skin like a constant presence, but it is not his to command. It doesn't belong to him that way.

A hundred times his thoughts have meandered in the same useless cycle, and he forces his focus to other business. His men. The conquered bandits. Here too there is little he can accomplish, but at least it is a puzzle within his purview. 

There was no solid proof, back in the scattered camp, that the bandits were in fact the disguised knights Arthur knows he saw. The sham was too well laid, the accessories almost perfect. Even the tents were patched and threadbare, the weapons an eclectic arsenal of stolen swords and spears. There was not a complete suit of arms between the entire band.

But one of the corpses carried a sigil, hidden with great care—wrapped in dark fabric and sewn into the hem of his traveling cloak. The sigil bore an all too familiar crest, a single winding serpent. 

Cenred.

Camelot's ban on sorcery does not extend into kingdoms like Essiter—kingdoms with which Camelot maintains a relationship of uneasy tolerance. Cenred has never proffered himself as a friend to Camelot, despite many years of relative peace between the two kingdoms. But neither has he committed such a blatant act of aggression. 

The implications are not good. If Cenred is taking an interest in Camelot now—if he is moving against them even as he covers his footsteps and pretends respect for the hard-won treaty between their kingdoms—it means their current peace is an illusion.

It means war is inevitable.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

No good can come of avoiding a confrontation with his father, and so Arthur catches another knight's eye as he dismounts, handing over his reins—and thus Merlin—with an unhappy nod.

"Get him to Gaius." 

Even Leon is not permitted entry when Arthur faces his father. This is not a debriefing. The king will take Leon's report later; dealing with his disobedient son is another matter entirely.

Arthur stands taut and tall for his father's rebuke. His spine is so straight his temples throb with tension, and he attends his father's words with an air of penitence. There is a great deal of shouting, Uther's fear and accusation ringing off the stone walls. Arthur responds with single words and lowered eyes. His deference comes too late, but he will not argue now. He will weather the king's wrath as he always does, and only prays that he is still be at liberty when this audience is done.

Even as he is granted permission to leave, Arthur fears his father will change his mind and have him confined to his chambers after all. But at last the door closes behind him, and Arthur is alone in the corridor.

He doesn't hesitate considering a destination. His feet are already carrying him towards Merlin.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Arthur knows better than to get his hopes up, but he's still disappointed when he enters the workroom and finds only Gaius awaiting him. There's no sign of Merlin, though the door to Merlin's small closet is tightly shut. Daylight has begun to fade, and the room grows dim as less and less of the sun's glow sneaks in through the high windows. Already Gaius has lit several candles along his primary work bench.

"Good evening, Sire," Gaius greets him, setting aside a vial of something frothy and gray.

"How is he?" Arthur demands, confident Gaius will forgive his rudeness, or at the very least understand his impatience.

"Sleeping, Sire."

"Still?" Arthur shivers unhappily. Not once did Merlin wake during the too-long journey back to Camelot. And now, too, Arthur has been several painful hours in his father's presence. Merlin should have woken by now, and the fact that he hasn't sets Arthur's teeth on edge.

"I have seen to his burns and contusions." Gaius wipes his hands on a loose rag and steps away from the bench. Arthur realizes he is still hovering at the door, one foot still planted in the corridor behind him. He steps forward silently and pulls the door shut as Gaius continues, "He is resting now. I am confident he will wake soon enough."

Arthur wants to protest, wants to ask how Gaius can sound so sure. Merlin has already slept too long, for no reason at all as far as Arthur can see. And it has not been the simple sleep of needed rest. Even exhausted, Merlin could not have slept through Arthur's yelling, shaking attempts to rouse him.

But Arthur holds his tongue. Gaius sounds so _sure_. There is worry in his tone, certainly, but also a tired resolution that checks some of the riotous fear twisting in Arthur's chest.

It's not until the feeling has already begun to quiet that Arthur recognizes it _is_ fear. From the look on Gaius' face, the old physician is already several steps ahead of him.

"Merlin will be all right. You have my word."

"When?" Arthur demands. 

" _That_ I do not know," Gaius admits. Arthur bites his tongue to prevent himself from snapping something rude, and in the silence Gaius' expression softens. He gestures to the low bench beside a mostly empty work table and says, "Will you sit, Sire? I should like to examine that bump on your head."

Arthur had entirely forgotten his own injury, minor as it is. A dull ache has been thumping through his skull since well before they reached Camelot, worsened by his audience with Uther.

"I'm fine," he insists automatically, but he sits anyway, and allows Gaius to poke and prod at his scalp. He doesn't flinch, but Gaius tuts sympathetically and then mercifully draws back.

"I'll fix you a poultice to lessen the swelling," Gaius promises, dropping down beside Arthur on the bench. "And perhaps something to help you sleep." Arthur doesn't thank him, but surely his gratitude shows.

"I do not mean to pry," Gaius says, tone cautious and eyes piercing. "But it is most evident that something more is bothering you." He doesn't ask more directly than that. He simply leaves the observation hanging between them, a question if Arthur chooses to acknowledge it. Arthur sits, quiet and motionless, slow to consider.

Discretion will always be his first instinct. As crown prince, trust and candor are potent tools, but also dangerous commodities. He cannot spend them lightly.

But Gaius has proven himself worthy of both, for Arthur's entire life. And clearly there is no one Merlin trusts more. Besides, Gaius is the most knowledgable resource Arthur has with regard to the magic tying him to Merlin. If there are answers to be had, he will only get them through Gaius.

Total honesty, then. There is no point in doing this halfway.

"You said the bond between Merlin and myself was unbreakable," Arthur says at last, clasping his hands together and leaning forward to brace his elbows atop his knees. "You did not say it would grow _stronger_."

Gaius is quiet for long moments—absorbing Arthur's words, or perhaps simply waiting to see if Arthur has more to say.

"How much stronger, Sire?" Gaius at last asks, voice neutral and almost alarmingly cautious. Arthur sighs and unclasps his hands, scrubs his fingers roughly through his hair in a gesture of unpolished impatience.

"I don't have the proper words for this," he mutters, tamping down his frustration with conscious effort. "I can always sense him lately, but sometimes it's more than that. Sometimes it's as if I know what he is _feeling_. As if _I'm_ meant to be feeling it, too."

"Fascinating." Gaius still sounds strangely detached, but there's a familiar spark of interest in his eyes—the curious scientist full of questions, even when the answers fall to magic. "In the course of my research I have found only the vaguest references to longterm effects. Some sources mention an openness of spirit, others an empathic joinder. Perhaps they are describing this phenomenon."

Arthur considers the implications, this 'openness of spirit', and suddenly asks, "Do you think Merlin feels it, too?" He doesn't mean the question to sound so alarmed.

"Quite likely." Gaius must catch the horrified look in Arthur's eyes, because he quickly adds, "It is very possible he does not consciously realize, Sire."

Which would be just like Merlin, really. The boy lives his life in a fog of willful obliviousness. Sometimes Arthur wonders how Merlin is even still alive.

But no, Arthur quickly reconsiders. He remembers Merlin waiting outside the council chambers after Uther's summons; he remembers Merlin falling into step beside him despite the dark cloud of Arthur's rage. He remembers being able to feel a thousand questions bubbling on the tip of Merlin's tongue—and his own shock when Merlin held his peace. Arthur has never known Merlin to keep his mouth shut in similar circumstances, or even situations far more dire.

But it makes sense enough if this particular awareness flows both ways—and why shouldn't it?

Arthur tries not to panic at the thought of Merlin knowing what he is feeling, and for a moment it's a losing battle. A hundred quiet guilts seem a great deal less harmless if Merlin has sensed an inkling of them. Arthur's dreams have continued, and if Merlin _knows_ —

But that is a vicious circle to fall into, and no good can come of it. Arthur forces himself to stop, to consider the situation intelligently. If Merlin already knows, then the damage is done and there is no point agonizing over it now. More likely Merlin _doesn't_ know. Arthur doesn't feel Merlin's emotions at all times. Surely Merlin's own awareness is equally sporadic.

"It is only sometimes," he says when he realizes Gaius is waiting patiently for more information. "When he is especially near, or when his feelings are most intense, or... Sometimes I don't _know_ why. Perhaps it is wholly random."

"Perhaps," Gaius agrees, though he sounds like he doubts it greatly.

"There is something else," Arthur says, because he is going to be entirely truthful. He needs Gaius to have all the facts. "A sensation... I don't know how to describe it. A jolt, almost. Or a banked ember coming to life. It's almost as if the... bond, the magic, whatever this— it's almost as though it were _excited_." He can think of no nearer way to describe the way something inside him jumps at times, eager and warm for no reason at all. 

"Excited about what?" Gaius sounds more concerned now.

Arthur gives an expansive shrug of helplessness. "I don't know. It always passes too quickly for me to work it out. But it has something to do with Merlin. It only happens when he is near." 

"And is Merlin doing anything in particular during these moments?"

"No." Arthur slouches back against the work table, an undignified and not exactly princely posture. "Once he was lighting a fire in my chambers. Once we were just riding." He pauses and gathers himself, feels his shoulders tense in anticipation as he drops his voice low and says, "Can I tell you something in complete confidence?" 

He searches Gaius' eyes and finds all the reassurance he needs even before Gaius speaks.

"Of course, Sire."

Arthur still hesitates, still has to swallow past the lump of emotion in his throat before he can admit, "I am afraid for him. What if he is in danger? What if I have _put_ him in danger? This magic could be malicious after all, and if it is interested in Merlin—" He can't finish because he doesn't know what he means to say. His fears are nebulous, formless, faceless.

"I have put him in danger so many times without thought," Arthur murmurs. He has done so, and he is not good nor strong enough to regret it. "But this is different. This is my fault, and it is so much worse. I haven't the right, Gaius." 

Gaius is silent a long time after Arthur tapers off. He is statue-still, gaze fixed somewhere far distant, heedless of the anxious energy thrumming through the prince beside him.

When at last Gaius speaks, his voice is so soft Arthur strains to hear him.

"You are a good man, my lord. Merlin knows this. I think... perhaps you do not realize how much he cares for you."

Arthur can't speak for the sudden emotion tightening his throat, but Gaius is staring him down in earnest now and clearly not through.

"Merlin will always throw himself in harm's way for those he loves. It is his greatest fault, and his greatest strength." Gaius pauses and sets a strong, strangely reassuring hand on Arthur's shoulder. "It is not a question of whether _you_ have the right. There is no power in the world that can stop him trying to protect you."

"Protect _me_?" Arthur protests loudly. He is first knight of Camelot, he does not need protecting.

But Gaius is watching him with a bemused expression, almost a smile, and Arthur's denials die on his tongue. 

Merlin has followed him into battle—into situations far more dangerous—a dozen times, a hundred. Protector or not, Merlin is brave and loyal to a degree that Arthur cannot fathom earning, and he deserves better than Arthur's protestations of incompetence.

"You should rest, Sire," Gaius suggests gently.

"Yes," Arthur agrees without hesitation. He stands, and his legs tremble with belated fatigue. He pauses at the door and turns to command Gaius, "Inform me when he wakes."

Gaius offers an indulging smile that Arthur does not acknowledge.

"Of course, Sire."

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The next morning Arthur doesn't need the lack of word from Gaius to tell him Merlin has not recovered. He just needs to nudge at the warm tug of magic in his chest to know that whatever was wrong with Merlin last night is _still wrong_. Merlin still feels too distant—though perhaps nearer now, unless that's just irrational optimism creeping up on him.

But foolish optimism is no match for the grim, dark tension of worry. Arthur is all but vibrating with unhappy energy by the time he reaches the practice field and his waiting knights.

He schools his expression into something less wrathful as he moves to the center of the field. His countenance of thunderclouds has already terrified a kitchen maid, a stable boy and the page who helped Arthur into his armor. It will hardly do to broadcast his discontent to the whole of Camelot.

Besides, training is exactly what he needs right now. A clear task on which to focus, a challenge to hold his attention. There is little in the world that can calm him like providing his knights a sound thrashing for their own good. 

Usually this is the case. Today it is patently not.

He calls an end to his drilling well before the sun has reached its noontime peak. His mood has not improved. His focus has not been diverted; if anything he feels worse, and his knights—the ones who are still standing—watch him with a strange mixture of awe and chagrin. Arthur's own muscles protest as he at last drops his sword to his side, and he takes note of which knights are still on their feet. He will remember to commend them for their endurance.

"That's enough for today," Arthur announces tightly, sheathing his sword. The knights disperse wordlessly, without their usual jostling and shoving camaraderie. They don't look at Arthur as they meander off the field towards the armory—but there's something calculated in the determined way they look everywhere else. No one wants to risk catching Arthur's eye and being called back for another round.

Leon—not part of today's training, but present along the periphery—lingers near the weapons, clearly waiting for Arthur to approach. His posture isn't stiff enough for official business or bad tidings, which means his presence heralds only personal concern.

Arthur hasn't the stomach for personal concern today. He pretends not to notice Leon waiting for him, and instead marks his course in the other direction, reentering the palace through the southern gate. He is relieved when Leon doesn't follow, and breathes easier when open gray skies are replaced by dim, cool stone.

This is ridiculous, Arthur viciously admonishes himself. Merlin has been in worse straits than this. Merlin has almost died for Arthur's sake, and Arthur should be stronger than this. Gaius has promised Merlin's full recovery, and Arthur should not fall such easy prey to puerile anxieties. 

He didn't feel this way when Merlin drank Arthur's cup to spare him the poison. _Fear_ he felt then—of course he feared for Merlin—but it was not the same as this icy, helpless rage.

Arthur was not helpless then. For all the times he has seen Merlin hurt, it has never been like this. Arthur has never been _aware_ of him like this before, sensitive to just how far Merlin is beyond his reach.

And he has never stood helplessly by with nothing to do but wait. 

He wants to go to Gaius and demand a report. He wants to see Merlin for himself.

He climbs to the highest battlements instead, and stands at the edge with one hand braced on the stone wall. He is not alone at this post, but he has the illusion of solitude. No one approaches him, and Arthur seeks no one out with his eyes. He only looks out and down, taking in the view of life so far below. Willing his raw nerves to calm.

The urge to check on Merlin fails to dissipate, unwise though Arthur judges the impulse. He comprehends all too well his father's opinion on attachment to servants. Proven loyalty is no mitigating factor. Arthur's grip on the parapet tightens, stone grating beneath his palm as his knuckles whiten.

He is startled by Gwen's approach, though he has control enough not to show it. The high wind makes quiet chaos of her skirts, blue fabric billowing and fluttering against stone.

"My lord," she says, voice an imitation of surprise. She is pretending, poorly, that she did not expect to find him here. They both know otherwise, but Arthur appreciates the pretense. Surprise implies that she has not sought him out—that she is not worried—when her eyes plainly tell a different story.

He smiles at her, and the expression is only a little bit forced. Strained as things have been between them, Arthur finds Guinevere's presence calming. Her concern clearly weighs too heavily for her to acknowledge any of the strangeness that lingers between them, and Arthur is grateful for her quiet strength.

"Are you not normally training with your knights at this hour, my lord?" she asks, softly but pointedly. A strong gust throws her hair into disarray, and she tucks the wild strands behind one ear. She is beautiful, and she is earnest, and Arthur can't be annoyed at her for intruding.

"Yes," he answers a shade too late. "But further drills would have been pointless. We accomplished all we could for today." _I was distracted_ , he does not say, but her gaze and her gentle half-smile say he doesn't have to. She knows him too well.

"I heard that it was a rigorous session," Gwen murmurs, still soft, lighter now. Trying to draw him out with kindness but careful not to say anything too direct. It's good of her to leave him room to maneuver and dodge and deny without having to find difficult words.

If she had come at him more directly, perhaps Arthur would have evaded the question. As it is he considers the merits of silence, and realizes he has no reason to hold his tongue. Gwen of all people will not fault him for admitting to a distress she already grasps. And Arthur trusts to no one's discretion more than Gwen's.

So he drops the pretense, and in the same low, private tone, Arthur asks, "How is he?" Because Gwen will understand, will have spoken to Gaius at least once this morning. Perhaps there is new information. Surely she has seen Merlin for herself.

"He sleeps," she says, stepping closer. "But it is _only_ sleep. Gaius swears he will soon wake."

Arthur's jaw clenches, but he nods. Her words paint a picture no worse than the one he already had, but he was hoping for better. He cannot abide all this uncertainty. Even Gaius is not infallible.

"My lord, forgive me. I know it is not my place." Gwen glides closer to him, the barest degree, tilting her head to look him directly in the eye. "But you seem... not yourself."

"I am quite myself. And I am fine." Both lies. He has not been himself since he touched a rune-covered chalice in a ruin that vanished into the very air. And he will not be fine until Merlin opens his eyes again.

But these are things he has no intention of voicing aloud. Not even to Guinevere. _Especially_ not to Guinevere, he thinks with a subdued twist of guilt. But he can think of nothing else to say—nothing that will reassure her and fill the suddenly uncomfortable silence—and so he says nothing.

"I should return to my duties," Gwen says at last, curtsying low and turning away. 

She casts one final, lingering glance over her shoulder, and then she is gone.

Arthur turns his gaze out to the farthest edges of the horizon and tries to think about nothing at all.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Eavesdropping is not a princely way to behave, but Arthur can't help himself when he comes upon Morgana and his father in muted conversation.

The sun is long set, and the torches cast uneven light, leaving long shadows that let him close enough to overhear—close enough to duck unnoticed into a dark alcove near the corner where the corridor turns—and he holds his breath, quite sure he knows what they are discussing. He is familiar with a hundred variations of his father's displeasure, and he recognizes the expression he sees on the king's face in the torchlight.

"—is about the boy, isn't it." Uther's voice rumbles low and dangerous.

Morgana doesn't shy from the unmasked anger in his tone; if she fears Uther (and she does, she must, even Arthur knows enough to fear his father as much as he loves him) her calm countenance doesn't show it.

"He was hurt in Arthur's service," she points out, her own voice reasonable and surprisingly light. "Surely it is only natural for him to wish his servant a hasty recovery."

"To the detriment of his own duties?" 

"Merlin has only been unconscious for a day and a half, my lord. Arthur has hardly had time to neglect his duties since returning to Camelot." 

"He should not have left Camelot in the first place!" Uther's voice is not so hushed now, and his anger thunders in the empty corridor. The king's vicious self control asserts itself quickly, and Uther draws himself taller, turning his gaze from Morgana deliberately. "He disobeyed my express orders. It would serve him right if his actions cost him his precious servant."

A chill shivers across Arthur's skin at the way his father all but spits the words, the taut disapproval in every syllable. 

Morgana laughs—actually _laughs_ —and Arthur can't believe his ears. From the look on Uther's face, he is also surprised. Uther turns a withering glare on Morgana, but she raises her chin in challenge, one corner of her mouth tugging upwards in a show of insolence that would be tolerated in no one else. 

"I would hardly describe Merlin as _precious_ ," she says, voice warm with humor but eyes flashing sharply in a way that leaves Arthur wondering. "Certainly not to Arthur."

"You deny his fondness for the boy?" Uther counters darkly.

Morgana's face falls more serious as she says, "Of course not. But you know Arthur. He can be... particular. He likes to have things his way. I mean no disrespect of course, but he can be petulant when his wishes are thwarted." 

Arthur would protest if he were there to defend himself. Morgana's words make him sound petty and spoilt, like the prat Merlin so often accuses him of being.

But Uther's expression is lightening, brow smoothing in the torchlight. He looks less wrathful now than put-upon. Weary impatience is a positive step from angry judgment. Whatever Morgana's strategy, whatever her intentions, it is clear she has this conversation well in hand. The shadows fall sharp across their faces, casting Uther older than usual and Morgana terrifyingly pale. But the ugly tension has bled from the air, leaving something tired in its wake.

"He troubles himself far too much with the boy's welfare."

"He is protective of those around him." Morgana arches an eyebrow with this parry, elegant in the firelight. Uther does not smile, but reluctant fondness warms beneath his otherwise steely expression.

"I suppose you are right. Still. I will have to punish him for his disobedience."

"Naturally," Morgana says, and the hint of a smile is back. "You _will_ let me know if I can help in some way." She is teasing, deliberately lightening the mood. Arthur finds himself more impressed than he cares to admit at the artful exhibit of persuasion.

Uther does not dignify that last with a response, instead turning to stride down the corridor, passing Arthur's alcove without a backward glance. Arthur waits long seconds after he disappears around the corner at the very farthest end of the hall. He holds himself still and silent and counts to ten before emerging from his shadows.

Morgana still stands in exactly the same position. She seems not the least bit surprised to see him approach, but the light expression falls smoothly from her face to be replaced by a different look entirely. Narrowed eyes, furrowed brow, lips pressed into a thin line. Her arms are crossed and her entire body holds a tension that did not show the entire time she spoke with Uther.

She looks tired, as she always does of late, and Arthur wants to ask what is troubling her. Morgana has changed in recent months. The fond bite of banter between them has taken on a cooler edge, as though she is merely maintaining appearances while taking greater and greater pains to protect herself. _From what_ , Arthur wants to ask, because surely she cannot think she needs to guard herself against him. For all their years of jibes and insults, she must know he loves her as a sister; there is little Arthur would not do for Morgana, and he can't bear the thought of her hurting enough to distance herself as she has been.

But even now she stands on her guard, even as she goes out of her way to help redirect Uther's wrath. Whatever else is troubling her is clearly not up for discussion, and Arthur approaches in quiet stride.

"Thank you," he says simply. She watches him silently for a time, and the smile she offers a moment later is small but genuine.

"You need to be careful, Arthur." She says it softly—more softly than she spoke for any of the conversation Arthur overheard—and there is urgency in the words. "Whatever is going on between you and Merlin, you know Uther would never understand."

"What do you—?" Arthur blinks in surprise, in confusion, in embarrassment. "Nothing is going on between us."

"Arthur, please," Morgana admonishes him, tilting her chin down and raising her eyes in pointed skepticism. "Don't. Not with me."

Arthur's protests die on his tongue and in his heart at the very same moment. 

He's kept his hands to himself since the night he had Merlin. He's told himself, repeatedly, that he has no intention of taking what he wants. But his dreams are still tainted by desires he has no right to indulge. His noblest intentions are meaningless if he cannot control his mind. He and Merlin are bound inextricably together, and for all the guilt weighing him down, Arthur can't stop thinking about him.

Arthur's voice has died along with his protest, he discovers, and the silence turns awkward. Morgana takes pity on him, expression softening, head cocking to one side in consideration.

"Tread cautiously, Arthur. You can't help Merlin by driving yourself to distraction." 

Arthur nods, because there is little he can say to that. Morgana hovers close for a moment, as though considering whether or not to touch him. Arthur can almost feel her fingers on his arm, even when she turns and retreats abruptly down the corridor. 

He realizes with a start that he is not merely worried for Morgana. He is afraid for her. 

It is a fear as useless to her as it is to Merlin, and Arthur straightens his back and sets his pace towards his own chambers.


	8. Chapter 8

"How do you feel?" Gaius asks, when Merlin opens his eyes after what feels like an ageless sleep.

" _Arthur_ ," Merlin gasps, ignoring the question and sitting up in a rush that leaves him dizzy. "Where is Arthur?" 

His dreams have all been of Arthur. Of course his first waking thoughts are of the prince. 

The last thing Merlin remembers is Arthur falling hard, knocked down by a bandit that snuck up on them from behind. Merlin had raged, unable to rush to Arthur's aid. He couldn't turn his focus on the lesser threat, because it took all he had to keep the torrent of magical fire at bay.

Something had snapped inside him at the sight of Arthur falling—fear, rage, a violent surge of every protective instinct in his blood. Merlin doesn't remember precisely what happened after that. The magic he called was nothing but raw instinct, a maelstrom of twisting wind and shuddering power. He recalls a single, vivid image—the three sorcerers dissolving before his eyes, embers crumbling to dust—and beyond that, nothing at all.

He thinks that might have been the moment he lost consciousness. And while he can feel in the deep, private recesses of his soul that Arthur is alive, Merlin needs reassurance that he will _stay_ that way. He needs to know that Arthur is unhurt.

But Gaius is admonishing him gently, steadying Merlin with a firm hand on his shoulder. He helps Merlin to shift back and lean against the wall. Sitting upright in his own bed shouldn't seem so monumental a task, and Merlin wonders how long he's been asleep. 

"Arthur is fine." 

Gaius hands him a cup of water. Merlin sips tentatively at first, takes greedier swallows as the cool liquid soothes his parched throat. 

"Though worried about _you_ , I think," Gaius murmurs. He barely hesitates, then adds, "You have been unconscious for over two days." 

Merlin stares, cup frozen at his mouth, and belatedly swallows his mouthful of water. He can feel in his bones that he slept long and hard. But _two whole days_? It's difficult to believe, despite his powerful thirst and the way his body protests even the smallest movement.

"How is that possible?" Merlin doesn't resist as Gaius removes the nearly empty cup from his hands and sets it aside. "I wasn't hurt. The last thing I remember—" 

He stops himself abruptly—not because he is afraid of admitting what he's done to Gaius, but because he doesn't exactly _know_ what he did. How is he to describe a spell with no incantation, no measurable purpose? How can he explain what it felt like to wrap his magic in pure, protective rage and damn the consequences?

"Someone took Arthur down and I panicked," he admits. That much is simple. "I couldn't help him. There were three sorcerers... I think they're gone now."

"Uther has his knights searching the surrounding countryside for them," Gaius reassures him, but Merlin shakes his head.

"No, not _gone_. Not like that." He swallows and makes himself meet Gaius' eyes. "I think they're dead."

Gaius sags with something that could be relief—Merlin decides it's relief—and regards Merlin with a look that is baldly assessing. 

"That would explain a great deal." He refills the cup and hands it back to Merlin, who drinks more slowly this time and waits for Gaius to continue. "From what little Arthur could report, you should have died in the sorcerers' fire. I had assumed protecting yourself and the prince until help arrived drained you past the point of endurance. If you not only deflected their attack but destroyed them where they stood, then it is no wonder you have been so long in regaining your strength."

"That's why I've been asleep for two days?" 

"So it would seem." 

Merlin finishes the cup of water and considers asking for another. He still feels parched and dry and a little bit shaky, and the clay jug at Gaius' elbow is near at hand, casting a long shadow in the morning sunlight. But Gaius' expression has shifted again, from assessment to reluctant concern. His right eyebrow arches higher than usual, and Merlin is familiar with that look. It signals admonishments yet unspoken, some rebuke Gaius is reluctant to deliver but knows he must.

"What is it?" Merlin asks, because he would rather have this over with, whatever it is. Gaius considers him silently for another moment, but at last sighs and shakes his head.

"You must be careful, Merlin. The bond between yourself and Arthur is not one-sided."

"I know that."

"Do you?" Gaius chides. "All the ways in which you can sense the prince—where he is, what he is feeling—it is evident he can do the same."

Merlin drops his gaze and for a long moment does not meet Gaius' eyes. He suspected. More than suspected, he _knew_. But Gaius' certainty brings stark reality to bear on the problem. 

"He told you this?" Merlin asks, surprised at the level of candor Arthur must have allowed himself for Gaius to sound so sure. Arthur is not one to share his secrets.

"He did." Gaius pauses pointedly. "You were right about one thing, however."

"I was?" Merlin thinks he has the right to be leery, considering Gaius' eyebrow has edged higher still.

"He remains unaware of your magic."

Merlin breathes half of a relieved sigh before realizing Gaius' eyebrow hasn't lowered.

"What?" he asks warily.

"Being _unaware_ of your talent does not prevent him from _feeling_ it."

"Oh." Merlin's heart sinks. It's another truth he has been trying not to recognize. 

"You must be exceedingly cautious, Merlin. If you continue to use your magic around the prince, it is only a matter of time before you give yourself away. Arthur will not remain oblivious forever."

"Despite evidence to the contrary," Merlin snorts, trying to lighten the mood. But Gaius' worries are well-founded, and already they are worming their way beneath Merlin's skin. 

He blinks in mild surprise as he realizes he's _scared_.

As long as Arthur doesn't know this final, vital secret, Merlin is sure his prince won't send him away. They've reached a balance—not quite steady, not quite sure—but a balance just the same. Somehow they've learned to exist this way, wound up too close. Bound together not just by destiny but by magic, an intimate connection that Merlin still can't quite wrap his head around. 

But if Arthur learns the truth, if he learns of Merlin's magic, that balance will shatter. 

Arthur will never betray him. This much Merlin knows, a confidence that pulses as deep and sharp as the bond itself. But he may decide Merlin is too much of a liability. He may judge Merlin too dangerous to remain in Camelot. He may look Merlin in the eye and tell him he cannot stay.

And Merlin doesn't know what he will do then.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

He tries not to ask where Arthur is—not because he thinks Gaius will judge or rebuke him—but because it should be enough that Arthur is all right. Merlin shouldn't need to know where the prince is at every conceivable instant. For once Arthur isn't shouting at him, and Merlin chides himself to be grateful for the chance to rest and think and force food into his unhappy stomach.

But the more time he has to think, the more aware he becomes that Arthur doesn't feel nearly as close as he should. The ever-present tug is as warm in his chest as ever, but it feels taut now. He doesn't think Arthur is in the citadel, and he has his doubts about the lower town as well. 

"Where is he?" he finally asks Gaius, conceding that his nerves won't settle until he knows for sure.

"Uther has sent him to the western villages. He rode out shortly before you woke."

"What—," Merlin blinks in confusion. "Why the western villages?" Nothing ever happens in the western villages. To the west, Camelot abuts Tír-Mòr. It's as peaceable a border as the kingdom possesses, and short of unforeseen calamity Merlin can't fathom why Uther should dispatch his son there.

"Punishment, I suspect." Gaius sounds unconcerned at least. Surely he would have volunteered the information sooner if Camelot _had_ fallen into fresh disaster while Merlin was out. "The king was understandably wroth at Arthur's disobedience. He has ordered a survey of the village grain stores, for tax purposes ostensibly."

"Grain stores," Merlin echoes, suppressing the flicker of amusement lighting in place of his worry. Oh, Arthur must be miserable, relegated to an excursion with so little promise of excitement. And if it is indeed deliberate punishment, Uther will have ordered him to make all haste. There will be no opportunity to hunt or to train, no outlet for the frustration Arthur must certainly feel at his father's orders. 

"Poor Arthur," Merlin says, and finds he mostly means it.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Merlin is half afraid Gaius will try to keep him to the workroom, mother hen that he is. But Arthur is now a full day's ride from Camelot, and Merlin can _feel_ the distance, sharp and impatient behind his ribs. The sensation winds him impossibly tight, and he's relieved when at last Gaius suggests he see to his duties.

Merlin has fewer than his usual duties with Arthur away from Camelot, but his chores have been three days neglected—or worse, completed by others—and there's ample to do. With all the cleaning and polishing, and a truly alarming quantity of laundry, the remains of Merlin's day pass quickly. The sun is setting by the time he thinks of Arthur's stables, but he decides not to worry himself on that front. Surely someone else has been seeing to those particular duties in Merlin's absence. He's hardly been in a condition for mucking stables these past three days, and the horses' care is far too important to leave neglected.

Besides, he rationalizes. He's only been awake for one day. That's hardly enough time to regain his strength, and his legs feel like jelly after just the trips he's taken up and down the palace stairs. If he tries anything so strenuous as stable work, Gaius will offer little sympathy when he passes out and lands in the manure.

He's still managed overtax himself, but it's simple fatigue weighing his limbs as he leaves Arthur's chambers and locks the door behind him. The hour is later than he realized—the torches have been lit along the walls to fend off the encroaching shadows of night—and he turns his steps towards the courtyard with a sudden yearning for sleep. 

His pace falters as a slim hand closes on his arm and tugs him around a sharp corner, into a shadowed alcove. He glances down at the pale fingers, then up into Morgana's face. She looks pallid in the dim light, and exhausted. She always looks tired lately, fatigue masking a deeper fear that Merlin understands all too well. He knows she will never feel safe in Camelot again. How can she, as her dreams persist and her awareness of her own magic continues to grow?

"What's wrong?" Merlin asks, voice gentle. After the barest hesitation, he covers Morgana's hand with his own in wordless reassurance. If she's seen something, if Arthur is in danger—

But Morgana shakes her head and her expression lightens—not quite a smile, but something like it. There's a sheepish twitch at the corner of her mouth, though the tension around her eyes remains. 

"I'm sorry," she says, slipping her hand from beneath his and wrapping her arms around herself as if against the night's chill. "Nothing is wrong. I didn't mean to alarm you. I've just been worried."

"About... me?" Merlin asks, eyebrows arching in surprise. 

The not-a-smile turns warmer, fonder, and Morgana shakes her head. "Of course about you. I know you've been unwell."

"I'm fine," Merlin protests. "Really. Honestly. I just... needed rest." A lot of rest. Days of rest, to reclaim the power he spent protecting Arthur. "I'm all right now," he finishes lamely.

Morgana, as always, endures his rambling with neither judgment nor comment, before murmuring, "I'm glad." 

For a moment, Merlin thinks that's all she has to say. Morgana has few enough friends; of course she worries for those she has—for the even fewer she can trust—and now that she's seen Merlin really _is_ all right, this strange audience can end. It's well past time for the corridors to be empty and the inhabitants of the palace to be abed. Merlin's own exhaustion weighs heavily on his shoulders.

But Morgana's expression has shifted again, to something somber and careful. Her eyes flicker, piercing in the unsteady torchlight, and she watches him with eerie stillness. There's heavy consideration in her silence, as though she is weighing some warning in her head and choosing whether or not she should speak. Merlin dislikes the look on her face. 

He resists the urge to fill the silence with anxious babble. Whatever she has to say, however little he wants to hear it, it must be important.

"I know something has changed between you and Arthur," she says at last, in a voice gone terribly soft. "I don't pretend to know what, and I will not ask." Merlin stares at her and wonders where his own voice has got to; he wonders what he can possibly say in response. But Morgana ignores his silence and continues, "It's obvious to anyone who knows Arthur that something is different. Something _important_." 

The words come out rough and small when Merlin asks, "Why are you saying this?"

Morgana regards him with calm reserve for several slow seconds. She is a statue, motionless in the flickering light. It's ridiculous that Merlin wants to shy away from her. 

"Uther is not always right," Morgana says at last, voice impossibly soft as she speaks words that verge on treason. "But his word is law."

Merlin doesn't agree aloud. He cannot afford to. He knows Morgana. He trusts her. But he is not the king's ward, and he can't afford to voice such thoughts, even in the quiet privacy of an empty corridor. Perhaps especially here. 

"You must guard yourself more carefully, Merlin. Uther already knows Arthur is fond of you, and he disapproves. If he perceived some deeper attachment..." Morgana trails off pointedly, and Merlin suddenly can't meet her gaze. There is nothing of reproach in her words, but he can't help feeling that she _knows_. The thought discomfits him intensely.

Morgana's hand is cool on his cheek, soft but commanding, and Merlin forces himself to raise his eyes. 

"You must realize the danger you would be in if the king knew Arthur cares for you." Morgana barely whispers, kindness and sadness in her eyes. It is the closest she will come to admitting just how much she understands, and even this is enough to set Merlin's nerves on edge. It is also strangely reassuring, to hear someone else tell him that Arthur cares. Even if it is Morgana. Even if this entire conversation is making Merlin want to crawl out of his skin.

Morgana's hand falls away. 

"Please be careful, Merlin," she says in the same low voice. "I don't want to see you hurt." 

Then she steps back, out into the corridor, a wisp-thin silhouette in the firelight. Merlin watches her go, her narrow skirts billowing as she hurries down the hall and vanishes through the far door. Her footsteps echo distantly, softer and softer, and Merlin doesn't move until even they have faded to silence.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Merlin finishes his few remaining chores quickly come morning, back to his normal excess of energy after Gaius plies him with a hearty (and surprisingly palatable) breakfast. Arthur still hasn't returned to Camelot, and his absence itches behind Merlin's ribs, a constant distraction. The day is a cool one, windy and gray and heavy with clouds, and Merlin doesn't protest when Gaius asks for his help grinding herbs. Part of him aches to be outside, but he knows it wouldn't help. The only thing that will settle the impatient energy in his chest will be Arthur's safe return.

There's nothing Merlin can do to bring Arthur home faster. Even if there were, it's hardly a rational need. He belongs at Arthur's side, but surely a scant two days' separation isn't the end of the world.

Fortunately, operating mortar and pestle requires little concentration. Merlin's distraction doesn't prevent him being of use to Gaius, and he works mostly in silence. He grunts and nods when Gaius seems to be making a point, even manages to scrounge up words from somewhere when Gaius poses more direct questions. But the bulk of Merlin's attention is elsewhere, on the nagging tug that makes him want to saddle up and set out after Arthur instead of waiting like a proper servant for his prince's return.

Perhaps he's losing perspective. Then again, Merlin's world has been wrapped up in Arthur since almost his first moments in Camelot. Despite the intertwining of their very souls, it seems to Merlin that very little has changed.

Only Arthur. Arthur has changed. Arthur keeps him at arm's length now, not physically but in every other way—constantly on his guard, even when he is not consciously wallowing in guilt. 

_Physically_ , Arthur is constantly, unknowingly invading Merlin's space. Sometimes he catches himself and retreats, not nearly as subtly as he thinks he does. But more and more often he doesn't even notice, and Merlin doesn't call him out.

Merlin has taken to doing everything he can to make sure Arthur _doesn't_ notice, if he's going to be honest. He craves Arthur's proximity like a physical hunger. Even if the intensity of it catches him off guard sometimes, Merlin can't find it in himself to repent. Not when sometimes Arthur will curl warm fingers around the back of Merlin's neck and not notice for minutes on end, the touch setting off a propriety glow in Merlin's chest. He likes it when Arthur touches him that way, even if he does his best not to think about why.

Arthur is now more than a day's solid ride from Camelot, and the distance feels wrong in a way Merlin couldn't describe and wouldn't dare try. 

But the unpleasant sensation is nothing to the nauseous chill that twists unexpectedly in Merlin's gut as he carries a bowl of finely powdered sage to Gaius. 

Merlin freezes mid-step at the awful feeling, tight dread wrenching through him as he turns his focus inward and searches out the magic that binds him to Arthur. Frustration mounts alongside at how little the magic actually tells him, how little he can _see_. There's violence, and also a cool, controlled fear Merlin recognizes from seeing Arthur into battle a dozen times or more. 

Gaius is saying his name—has been standing in front of Merlin repeating it for several seconds—and he shakes Merlin's arm, trying to get his attention.

"Arthur is in trouble," Merlin says, blinking and forcing himself to focus on Gaius instead of the knotting anxiety in his gut. 

Gaius quickly masks his concern and lets go of Merlin's arm, then pats him once on the shoulder in a way that's probably intended to be reassuring. 

"Arthur is often in trouble," Gaius points out reasonably. "I'm sure he will be quite all right. And in any case, there is nothing you can do."

"You're right," Merlin concedes grudgingly. There's nothing he can do. His worrying won't help—it might even prove a dangerous distraction if Arthur is equally aware of him right now—and Merlin forces himself calm. He inhales slowly through his nose, lets the air out through his mouth, loosens his tight grip on the heavy bowl in his hands. He is not going to panic. He is going to trust to Arthur's combat skills and continue assisting Gaius. 

He manages two steps towards the workbench before Arthur is hurt—hurt badly enough that Merlin feels a phantom pain in the meat of his own left thigh—and his vision swims sharply. He hears a noisy clatter as the bowl hits the floor, stone against stone, and he doesn't care if it's broken because _Arthur_ —

His legs are shaking, but he's still on his feet when Gaius reaches him.

"Merlin, what is it?"

"He's hurt," Merlin chokes around the terror clogging his throat, and his vision blurs. Could be tears, could just be the way his head is swimming at the rising panic in his chest—panic that is as much Arthur's as his own, he realizes with an unhappy jolt. Arthur is fighting and losing, must be on his knees or worse by now. Merlin pictures him surrounded and outnumbered. There's no other way an opponent could have gotten past his defenses, not the way Arthur fights.

Merlin's knees buckle at another hurt, this time sharp and low across his forearm—his _right_ arm—Arthur's sword arm. Merlin doesn't even feel the impact of the stone floor beneath his knees, because he doesn't have time to think about his own body. His every sense is turned inward, searching for Arthur—

He finds Arthur searching for him in kind, and the revelation is startling. Merlin presses his palms flat to the floor, trembling with ragged tension that screams for a target, because Arthur is calling him.

Arthur is _calling him_ , reaching for Merlin through the twining mess of their souls, and there's nothing Merlin can do.

"They're going to kill him," he whispers, closing his eyes as his hands curl into tight fists against the floor. 

Protest and magic constrict in his chest, and Merlin's breath hitches sharply. Raw power storms and swells inside him, and the feeling is violent and terrible. 

Something is happening—magic is roiling through Gaius' workroom like wind—and Merlin knows he is doing this.

He's not controlling it, but it is his doing just the same.

Merlin breathes out. Breathes in. The air tastes different. When he unfists his hands, he finds soft grass beneath his fingers, and hope ignites in his chest with the force of fire. When he opens his eyes, there is still magic scouring violently through him, and he finds himself kneeling at the feet of five men with swords. Their blades are bloodied, and the nearest has his weapon raised above his head for a killing blow. All of them have been shocked to complete stillness at the sight of Merlin appearing before their eyes. 

Merlin twists to look behind him, over his shoulder, because it's too late to care if there is still magic flashing in his eyes—and there's Arthur, staring at him in wild confusion. Bloodied and swordless, but _alive_ , and that's all Merlin needs to know. 

He turns back to the startled enemy and, without standing, he raises one hand.


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur has known defeat before, but never like this. He is surrounded, his sword gone as well as his knights—gone, but not dead, surely not dead—and his wounds might not kill him, but the seven men with swords certainly will.

The irony is that they're really just bandits this time. The knowledge only makes the bleakness of defeat taste that much more sour on Arthur's tongue.

He can feel Merlin in the deep, secret spot where their souls bleed together. He can feel Merlin's fear, his wordless questions, and it's almost like having Merlin at his side. Better this way, Arthur thinks. Better that Merlin shouldn't die here.

But still there is a jealous, angry swell of feeling in Arthur's chest raging and demanding otherwise. If this is the end then he wants Merlin at his side, even if it is selfish. Even if it is unforgivable. He wants Merlin _here_ , and cruel as it is, he can't help calling for him through the pulsing brightness of their bound souls.

The wind picks up, gradually at first, then sharp and fast. A violent storm brewing out of the calmest sky. And then—

Then there is Merlin, suddenly crouched between Arthur and the sword poised to end his life.

Merlin. Here. On his knees before Arthur in a cascade of gold and shadow, impossible and real. Like magic.

It _is_ magic, Arthur knows. He can feel it, deep and secret. The rustle of embers surging to life, a sensation he recognizes but has never understood. He has only ever felt it around Merlin.

He understands now, but he doesn't believe it.

When Merlin twists to look at Arthur, his eyes are still flashing gold with power, and _now_ Arthur believes.

Then Merlin turns his deadly focus back to the bandits. He raises one hand, and Arthur doesn't know _what_ he does, exactly. Merlin murmurs, a long string of syllables that are nothing like Arthur has ever heard before. Words heavy with power, ancient and ugly and beautiful all at once.

The bandits drop their weapons and double over, clinging to their stomachs, screaming in unfathomable pain. No wounds appear on their bodies, but they fall one by one, collapsing to the grass and at last falling silent. Arthur struggles to keep his eyes open, but he's lost too much blood, and fatigue is already nestling into his bones. 

Merlin reaches his side before he passes out, gold fading from his eyes as he reaches for Arthur, searching out the worst of his wounds.

"Arthur!" Merlin's voice is rough and desperate. "Are you all right?"

Arthur wants to laugh. He wants to ignore the question and shove Merlin away. He wants to point out that Merlin just used _magic_ to end the lives of half a dozen men. He made it look so easy, like some stupid parlor trick. Like it's something he does every day. 

But Arthur hasn't time for any of those things before exhaustion drags him into oblivion. The last thing he hears is Merlin's voice calling his name.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Arthur wakes under cover of deep forest. His wounds trouble him surprisingly little, and night has long since fallen. His thoughts are muffled confusion as he blinks his eyes open to firelight.

Merlin lies asleep close beside him. 

Arthur is on his back, covered warmly against the cool of the night. Merlin lies on the cold ground between Arthur and the fire, curled onto his side, facing Arthur as though keeping vigil—as though he didn't intend to fall asleep at all. The position can't possibly be comfortable. Merlin has no bedroll, and has not tried to make Arthur's equipage suffice for two. But he seems to be dreaming soundly nonetheless. He isn't touching Arthur, but he's curled himself so close he might as well be. Their faces are bare inches apart, and Arthur can feel the warmth of Merlin's steady breath on his chin. 

There is a disconcerting lack of the snores and snuffling of his knights. They must be still alive—separated from Arthur, certainly, and likely still at some distance—but Arthur knows he has trained his men well enough for the challenge they met today. He refuses to believe the whole of his retinue could have been defeated by a motley scattering of bandits, no matter how impressive the enemy's numbers.

He will learn for certain later. For now there is only the silence of the forest and Merlin at his side.

He watches Merlin sleep for a long time, and now that Arthur is more awake, he's remembering in great detail what he has learned. Conflicting instincts clatter through him. He wants to be capable of accepting this knowledge. He wants to order Merlin from his sight. He wants to go back a day into the past and prevent himself learning the truth, because the truth is staggering and incomprehensible.

It is difficult—impossible—to wrap his head around the knowledge that Merlin is a sorcerer. 

_Merlin_. Sorcerer. It's unfathomable. Arthur can't square the deadly power he witnessed today with the reality of his useless, insubordinate servant. Worse, he can't stomach the revelation that Merlin is capable of keeping secrets.

Of _lying_ to him.

Arthur's heart gives a discomfited twinge as he thinks back over all the times he should have known. So many moments become stupid and obvious in retrospect. They become reckless. How has Arthur managed to hold himself blind for so long?

He remembers every conversation he and Merlin have ever had about magic. He remembers espousing his father's cause, voicing the fears (prejudices) he has been raised to accept as gospel. And this time his heart twinges for entirely different reasons.

The jumble of his thoughts halts abruptly when he realizes Merlin's eyes are open, the barest glint in the darkness. It's only now that he thinks he ought to be surprised to find Merlin still here. Good sense should have sent Merlin fleeing the kingdom at top speed, and instead he stayed to tend Arthur's wounds and wait for him, sleeping on the bare ground with no thought to retreat.

He should be surprised Merlin stayed. Somehow, he isn't surprised at all.

"You have magic." Arthur keeps his voice low even though they're entirely alone. This secret carries too much weight. 

"Yes." Merlin's voice is cautious, barely above a whisper. "I've always had magic."

And yet he has made Camelot his home. Arthur's first instinct is to call Merlin an idiot, but he manages to hold his tongue. He wants to ask Merlin why he stays somewhere he is in constant mortal danger, but the question dies unspoken. Even in the grim darkness of the forest, the look in Merlin's eyes is answer enough. And perhaps Arthur is too much the coward to let Merlin speak the words aloud.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," Merlin says, so softly Arthur strains to hear him. "I've wanted to tell you so many times. But your father—"

"Did you think I would turn you over to him?" Arthur interrupts, stung—but also guilty. What assurances has he ever offered otherwise?

"No," Merlin answers instantly. "I mean... maybe at first. But I know you better than that now."

"Then why the secrets?"

Merlin hesitates, throat working in a visible swallow. He catches his lower lip between his teeth and looks away. Arthur has never known Merlin to be openly evasive, and he certainly won't stand for it now.

"Merlin," Arthur presses the issue. His sore muscles protest as he reaches for Merlin with his uninjured arm. He curls his fingers beneath Merlin's chin and makes him look again, makes him meet Arthur's eyes. Merlin doesn't resist the wordless command, but it's still a long moment before he speaks.

"You love your father. And you are loyal to your king. You're an honorable man, Arthur." Merlin inhales shakily, and Arthur waits, patient. Merlin gathers himself and at last continues, "Even my presence in Camelot is treason. I didn't want to put that on your shoulders. Better you not know I was protecting you than have to lie to your father."

"Protecting me," Arthur gapes, and again his mind casts back, his memory sharp and hot. The gryphon. The questing beast. The windstorm in Ealdor that saved them all. "It was you," he realizes. "So many times, it was _you_ who saved me." He thinks of an impossible light in a pitch black cave, guiding and helping him when all should have been lost, and wonders if that was Merlin, too.

Merlin nods, chin brushing the fingers still curled unthinkingly around the line of his jaw.

"Why?" Arthur asks helplessly.

And then, to Arthur's surprise, Merlin _smiles_. The expression is self-conscious and ridiculous, but it's genuine. Full of a warmth that Arthur can feel beneath his skin—all the way down to the soul they share.

"I will always protect you," Merlin says. "It's my destiny."

Then, almost hesitantly, Merlin shifts closer, until there is no empty ground between them. He's careful as he positions himself along Arthur's side, curling protectively around him. A pause, a moment's consideration, and Merlin shifts again, tucking his chin over Arthur's shoulder and draping an arm across Arthur's stomach, mindful of Arthur's injuries.

Arthur slowly exhales the breath he hadn't even realized he was holding. 

"Please don't send me away." Merlin mumbles the words into Arthur's tunic, arm tightening around him for the barest second. There's a moment of terror in Arthur's chest—not his own terror, but Merlin's—and Arthur can't quite process just how much Merlin dreads the possibility of being ordered away. 

He need not fear. Arthur isn't strong enough to give such a command. It's been difficult enough having Merlin a simple day's journey from his reach. 

"I won't," Arthur promises, and of course it's the easy thing to say. He's honest enough to admit when he's being selfish.

"I've never done that before," Merlin whispers, shifting minutely against Arthur's side and somehow managing to burrow closer.

"Done what before?"

"The... traveling thing. From one place to another in an instant. I never knew that was possible." Merlin pauses heavily then adds in a small, uncertain voice, "I don't think it _is_ possible." 

"Yet you did it."

"Yeah."

Arthur has to pause to absorb this, and to process the dozens of questions that spring to mind. His own knowledge of magic may be patchy and wrong, but he knows stories enough. He knows the contours of his father's fear. And he has never heard of anyone capable of what he saw Merlin do today. He wants to ask what else Merlin can do. He wants to know if Merlin is as staggeringly, terrifyingly powerful as Arthur is beginning to suspect.

But Merlin has gone rigid, as though he can sense the tenor of Arthur's thoughts, and in the end Arthur doesn't have the heart to put his questions aloud. Perhaps one day Merlin will confess of his own volition. 

Perhaps one day Arthur will deserve to know.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They reunite with Arthur's knights early the next day. They are still in the forest; the knights have been looking for their prince, deliberately tarrying, wisely unwilling to return to Camelot without him. It's fortunate they had not yet give up hope. With Merlin on foot (no horse, no supplies of his own), he and Arthur would've had a difficult time overtaking them on the road back to Camelot.

No one is hurt even half as badly as Arthur himself, and they report no difficulty in slaughtering their own share of the bandits. Arthur can sense the stubborn glint of curiosity rolling off Merlin, a desire to ask god only knows what. He probably wants to know how they became separated in the first place, wants to know the facts of the battle as though they were the scores at a tourney.

Arthur doesn't indulge him, but he does smile, impressed at Merlin keeping his silence. Little as Merlin respects the strictures of his station when he and Arthur are alone, it seems he is coming to understand the value of appearances.

"What is Merlin doing here?" Sir Aglovale asks, the first to notice Merlin hovering silently at Arthur's flank. Arthur startles, chiding himself for not anticipating the question. He scrambles for an answer, but Merlin steps forward before anyone can notice the prince is floundering. He looks collected and unconcerned, as though he had the foresight to consider and prepare an answer last night.

"I've been following you," Merlin announces brightly. "Since just outside the city gates." Arthur keeps his expression neutral by force of will and prays no one thinks this through too closely. What reason could Merlin possibly have had to keep his distance unless Arthur ordered him to stay behind; but Arthur can hardly have ordered Merlin to stay behind given his manservant's condition when Uther commanded him to set forth.

But no one ever pays attention to Merlin, and Arthur is relieved when someone asks a different question entirely.

"Where is his horse?"

"Gone," Merlin answers quickly, clearly prepared for this contingency as well. "He spooked when we came upon the bandits. I was lucky not to break my neck when he threw me and bolted."

"Merlin found me just as I finished them off," Arthur explains, hoping his tone will end the discussion before they find some way to trip on their own story. "If he had not arrived when he did, I'd likely have died of my wounds." It's true enough, at least in part. The bandits are gone. And Arthur is reasonably sure none of his wounds were mortal—he is in no danger and surprisingly little discomfort now—but he would surely have lost too much blood if Merlin had not been there. 

He would simply have fallen asleep in the forest and never woken up. The idea chills him, but not nearly so badly as the thought that follows—the realization that Merlin would have _known_. All the way back in Camelot, unable to help, Merlin would surely have felt the moment of Arthur's passing. Guilt rushes through Arthur with surprising force, and he vows to himself he will never put Merlin through that. 

He will never leave Merlin behind again.

Late the next day, Camelot comes into sight over the hill. The knights ride farther ahead, and Arthur turns to Merlin in the relative privacy and quirks a disapproving eyebrow.

"I can't believe they swallowed your ridiculous story. Following us since Camelot? _Really_ , Merlin?"

"Why shouldn't they believe it?" Merlin grins up at Arthur, bright and unapologetic. "I'm an idiot remember?"

Arthur rolls his eyes and spurs his horse ahead, but he quickly repents and slows again. Allowing Merlin to catch up, still on foot. 

They haven't spoken of the night before, and Arthur knows they never will. He will not allow himself that luxury, for fear of asking for things he has no right to. 

Inexplicably, Merlin is still smiling as he falls into step beside Arthur's horse. Ahead of them, the walls of Camelot grow taller as their steps lead them home.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

They're back in Camelot for less than a week before Merlin decides he's above such petty concerns as caution and self-preservation; at least, that's how it seems to Arthur when he watches his careless, idiot manservant stop a would-be assassin from killing the king.

Stops him with magic. In the throne room. Practically under Uther's nose, not to mention a dozen nobles, a wall of knights and the palace guard—none of whom would have been fast enough to stop the false monk from claiming his shot if the man hadn't inexplicably dropped his crossbow before he could pull the trigger.

Arthur might not have realized the truth himself if he hadn't felt a warm, familiar pulse of magic at the same moment. But his eyes met Merlin's, and he caught the fading glow of gold. _Right there_ and obvious for anyone to see.

No one does see, though. All other eyes are on the failed assassin, and it's obvious no one has noticed Merlin's display. But they might have done, and easily. It's simple, stupid luck that has guarded Merlin's secret, and Arthur is furious.

He can count on one hand the times he's been this angry and still have fingers to spare. His knuckles grasp white at the hilt of his sword, though there's no tangible enemy for him to fight. He cannot protect Merlin from his own oblivious idiocy (though _someone_ has to, insists an unkind voice in Arthur's head).

He forces his eyes forward, because he can't afford to draw extra attention to Merlin. But he lets wild rage seethe through him unchecked, and viciously hopes Merlin can feel it. He needs Merlin to understand that he cannot risk his life so cheaply. There had to have been another way, and Arthur won't stand for Merlin risking his head by practicing magic at the very heart of Camelot. 

It's torture, remaining at his father's side after the assassin is apprehended and questioned. Arthur is silent for fear of saying the wrong thing in his distraction. He nods at everything his father says. He assigns his best knights to see to the increased patrols ordered by the king.

He is, he thinks, every bit the cool, collected prince his father needs him to be.

Merlin must know better as he follows Arthur through the corridors, after the dismissal so long in coming. They traverse the palace in silence, and Arthur's anger calms little along the way. He can't lose Merlin. His gut roils in protest at the mere thought.

Merlin, at least, has sense enough to follow quietly if not meekly. He asks no questions and makes no apologies. They both understand that this conversation must wait for total privacy. Even when empty, the palace corridors are far too exposed for Arthur to voice his displeasure.

He locks the door to his chambers as soon as they are both inside, and reaches for Merlin without thought.

Anger guides his touch now, as it has guided his steps all the way from the throne room, and his hands are not gentle on Merlin's arms. Arthur shoves him against the door, knocking him back so hard Merlin's head jars against the wood. He doesn't for an instant consider apologizing; that will not make Merlin understand. 

More than anything, he needs Merlin to understand.

Arthur is still searching for the right words when Merlin kisses him. Arthur's grip hasn't softened, but he is standing far too close, and Merlin simply twists in his hold, leans closer, and presses his mouth to Arthur's. Quick and startling, and over before Arthur has recovered from the shock.

Merlin jerks back as suddenly as he first moved, staring at Arthur with wide-startled eyes. He looks every bit as shocked as Arthur by what he's done, and his head thumps awkwardly back.

But Arthur has been holding himself back far too long, resisting his baser desires with fading control. He is not strong enough to resist Merlin now, and when Arthur surges forward, the kiss he claims is very different from the one Merlin offered. Arthur's anger twists and evaporates into a different sort of energy, and he is frantic as he crushes Merlin against the door with the weight of his body, the strength of his hands. He takes Merlin's mouth with a desperation that shocks both of them. This kiss is deep and possessive and so very hungry.

Heat and need twine between them, an almost tangible force. Arthur can feel not just his own mounting arousal, but Merlin's as well, bright and hot, and sharper even than Arthur's. Merlin clings to him, and Arthur is fascinated by the way he can feel more complicated emotions running beneath the rising wave of Merlin's desire for more. The bond between them shows him confused affection, wild exasperation, eager want, and below even that—

— _fear_ , Arthur realizes with an unpleasant start. He can sense the small, secret sting of fear in Merlin's heart.

It doesn't matter how tightly Merlin clings to him, or how warm and pliant his mouth is beneath Arthur's. Merlin is afraid.

Arthur jerks back abruptly, taking his hands off of Merlin and wrenching free. He takes an unsteady backwards step and manages to avoid falling on his ass in his hurry. He takes a second step, barely steadier than the first. He can't take his eyes off of Merlin as he retreats, and the third step is the last he manages. He can't bring himself to put more distance between them than this.

"Why are you stopping?" Merlin asks, staring at him in dawning confusion. "Arthur, what's wrong?"

"Get out, Merlin."

" _Why_?" Merlin is not just staring now, but gaping at him openly.

"Because I order you to." Arthur is managing a calm tone, but it won't last long. Merlin's mouth is red from the force of Arthur's kiss, and Arthur wants—

It doesn't matter what Arthur wants. He clenches his hands into fists at his sides, and levels his fiercest glare at Merlin, praying that for once it will have some effect.

"Right," Merlin scoffs, shattering that small hope. He pushes off of the door and takes a tentative step towards Arthur. "Because I'm terrific at doing what I'm told under normal circumstances. I'm certainly going to do what you say _now_."

" _Merlin_." Desperation and exasperation claw in equal measure within Arthur's chest, but Merlin only takes another step forward.

" _Sire_." There is no deference whatsoever in Merlin's voice as he takes a third and final step. He's standing too close, but perhaps he is not a complete idiot. He doesn't actually touch Arthur, and Arthur is grateful for it. He has his doubts about what he might do if Merlin touched him right now.

But Merlin is silent. Waiting and worried, and Arthur deflates at the expectant quiet that twines around them like a snare. Merlin is making it clear he won't leave without answers, and Arthur has nothing to tell him but the truth. He scrubs a hand tiredly across his face, suddenly unable to meet Merlin's eyes.

"I can feel what you're feeling, Merlin."

"So? What does that have to do with—?"

"You were afraid." 

The interruption is soft, but it effectively crushes Merlin's protest, at least for a moment. Neither of them speaks for long, uncomfortable seconds. Arthur because all the things he can think to say hurt too much to voice. Merlin for god only knows what reason, but probably because he's processing Arthur's words, realizing the truth of them in the discomfited silence.

"And you think that means I don't want you touching me?" Merlin says softly, and Arthur forces himself not to flinch. It's difficult to hold his ground when Merlin edges even closer and says in an impossibly soft voice, "I do lots of things that scare me."

"This is different."

"How?"

"You're scared of _me_." He knows his eyes are saying too much, but he can't stop them from seeking Merlin now, and he wonders how he looks. Wide-eyed and wounded, probably. He hates feeling this exposed, this vulnerable, but he can't stop the words now that he's started. "You've every right to be, after what I did to you. But it's never been _me_ before." He pauses, inhales with unnecessary care, and asks, "Has it?" 

Because even with all Merlin's secrets, even knowing how long Merlin hid his magic, Arthur can't bring himself to believe Merlin was ever scared of him. He's always known Arthur too well, and Arthur certainly knows Merlin better than that.

"No," Merlin admits. "It hasn't." But before Arthur can interject, he adds, "And I'm not afraid of you now, either."

A humorless laugh chokes Arthur, dark disbelief tearing his gaze down, away from Merlin's unguarded expression to the safer focal point of the floor. 

"Right," Arthur says miserably. "Of course. You're not afraid of me. You're afraid of that _other_ crown prince of Camelot who attacked and violated you." 

Merlin sucks in a hurt breath, and Arthur hates himself. He doesn't apologize.

"You know I don't blame you for what happened."

"Perhaps you should," Arthur snaps. And then, though it is the most painful truth he knows, he forces himself to look Merlin in the eye and say, "I hurt you."

But Merlin is steady and unflinching when he says, "You were enchanted."

"And you suffered the consequences."

"We're _both_ dealing with the consequences," Merlin counters quickly. "I thought we were doing a good job of it, too."

Arthur bites back the argument that no, he _doesn't_ feel like he's doing a particularly good job. Not when his dreams continue almost every night, filthy and vivid. Not when he can't stop staring at Merlin's mouth, even now, can't stop remembering how Merlin felt beneath him. Not when he wants to touch Merlin in a thousand different ways, each one less appropriate than the last.

He cuts those thoughts savagely down, glad suddenly that he and Merlin can't see quite so clearly into each other's heads. But Merlin's face tells Arthur his feelings give away more than enough to damn him. 

"Had you wanted—?" Merlin begins to ask, but clearly thinks better of the question. He falls silent as the blush on his cheeks darkens, and if Arthur were a better man he would leave well enough alone. No good can come of Merlin looking at him like that, all but vibrating with wordless invitation. No good can come of whatever Merlin is about to ask, and Arthur can't afford to indulge his curiosity.

So of course he hears his own voice prompt, "Had I wanted...?"

"Before. Had you ever wanted... Had you thought about it?"

"Had I thought about _what_ , Merlin?" Arthur is being deliberately obtuse, and it's cruel. But the confession Merlin is asking for is too potent, and Arthur holds his breath.

"Had you ever thought about— me?" Merlin finishes weakly.

"Yes," Arthur says, crushed under the weight of that one word. He always considered it harmless. Idle fantasy. But he _had_ wanted Merlin, even before. 

There is, after all, a great deal of difference between wanting and taking.

"I never realized." Merlin's voice is irritatingly gentle.

"Of course not, you idiot." Fondness creeps into Arthur's tone despite a determined effort to remain cool. "On my word, I never intended— I would not have touched you. It would be inexcusable to take advantage of a servant under my protection."

Merlin's face is still flushed red, but his eyes quickly brighten with exasperated disbelief. 

"Take advantage of me," he gapes. "Arthur how could you _ever_ take advantage of me? Aren't I always ending up in the stocks for ignoring your orders, never mind your _requests_?"

"Your status as the most insubordinate servant in the history of Camelot has no impact on _my_ responsibilities," Arthur retorts. But his dry tone drifts softer when he says, "I strive to be a better man than that."

"You are," Merlin insists, and Arthur has never seen him look so earnest as he does now. Arthur wants to tell him he wasn't fishing for reassurance, but in truth he feels better for Merlin's words. He believes them. In Merlin's eyes, at least, Arthur is the good man he sometimes doubts himself to be. 

"Aren't you going to ask me?" Merlin asks, before Arthur manages to find his voice again. 

"Ask you what?" Arthur recovers quickly, blinking confusion at what feels like an abrupt shift in topic.

"The same. You know... ask me if I'd thought about it before?"

"Do you _want_ to answer that question?" Arthur doesn't try to keep the disbelief out of his voice, because he suspects Merlin hasn't thought through what he is asking. His suspicion is sharply confirmed when Merlin draws back, looking genuinely startled. The way he ducks his head and shrugs could mean too many things, and Arthur is too tired to try and interpret it now.

"Not really, no," Merlin at last answers, effectively rescinding the question. Arthur can sense that Merlin will still answer if pressed, and it takes every last corner of his remaining willpower to be the better man and hold his tongue.

"Then I will not ask."

The look on Merlin's face is too cryptic to be simple relief, and Arthur does the only thing he can think to. He turns away.


	10. Chapter 10

The night after he kisses Arthur, Merlin finds sleep elusive. His bed is harder (colder) than usual, and his pillow squashes into uncomfortable lumps beneath his head.

Gaius' breathing stretches steady and loud from the workroom, just like always, but tonight it doesn't lull Merlin towards sleep. Tonight there's too much chaos in his head, and he cannot rest for all his thinking.

He didn't mean to kiss Arthur. That was nothing but instinct, nothing but the overwhelming force of Arthur's proximity pulling Merlin in and making him want things he's not entirely comfortable thinking about—worse, making him realize that he's been thinking of nothing else for days. 

If denial can't keep him from making an idiot of himself then what's the point? 

Merlin tries (fails) not to feel petty and stung by Arthur's rejection. Arthur _wants_ all that Merlin was offering; Merlin knows because he could feel it. He can still feel it now, if he reaches for the tether of magic in his chest: a raw, aching heat that Arthur guards with grim ferocity, with guilt that circles like the strongest battlement. 

Of course Arthur rejected him, Merlin realizes abruptly. He doesn't trust himself; he trusts even less in Merlin's ability to know his own mind.

Merlin can concede that he didn't exactly think this one through. It doesn't make him _want_ any less, and he chafes at all the frustrated energy zinging beneath his skin. It's not as though he can blame his stubborn prince. Arthur is only doing his best, and Merlin can't reasonably fault him for that.

 _Unreasonably_ , he can fault Arthur all he likes. But it's somehow less satisfying when he knows he's being unfair, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.

He can't imagine sleeping with all this noise in his head. Lord knows he's been trying for so many hours the night must be half gone. But he must manage somehow. One moment he's agonizing over Arthur's cautious distance, the next he's murky with sleep. The darkness feels heavier beyond his closed eyelids, the weight of night and exhaustion creeping up on him unawares.

He thinks he was dreaming. About Arthur's hands and Arthur's alarming blue eyes, and there may have been a falcon, a forest, a river in a rocky clearing. It's fading quickly, but fills Merlin with warmth just the same.

He reaches after the dream, after an imagined memory of Arthur calling his name. But it's too far gone. The images vanish entirely as Merlin breathes a disappointed sigh and shifts onto his other side, careful movements to avoid rolling off the hard, narrow edge of his bed.

But there's too much give beneath him, too soft a surface. The pillow beneath Merlin's head isn't lumpy and course like it should be. The blanket is heavy and smooth, and even the air feels too warm. Something isn't right. Merlin opens his eyes, bracing himself for the unknown and inexplicable.

He finds Arthur instead—inexplicable yes, but hardly unknown—and Merlin blinks in confusion, wondering if the darkness is playing tricks on him.

But Merlin's senses are keen, and this is no trick. It's only Arthur, propped on one arm and staring down at Merlin like he's trying to decide which of them has gone insane.

"Um," Merlin says helpfully, trying to burrow surreptitiously deeper beneath the bedclothes. It doesn't work very well. Arthur only arches a disapproving eyebrow.

"Merlin." Arthur looks alarming and unamused in the midnight shadows of his own chambers. "What are you doing in my bed?"

"I don't know." No point denying he's as confused as Arthur to find himself here. "I'm reasonably sure I _wasn't_ a moment ago." Then, because for some reason it seems pertinent, he asks, "How long have you been awake?"

"Not more than five minutes." Arthur blinks. "Don't change the subject. You can't be here, Merlin. I thought I made it clear—"

"Oi!" Merlin interrupts. "This isn't _my_ fault. You make it sound like I've been sneaking around the castle."

"Haven't you?"

" _No_!" Merlin erupts, gaping at Arthur through the darkness.

"Then I suppose you got here by magic," Arthur mutters dryly. But then he freezes, and Merlin does too, and both of them must work it out in the same instant because Arthur says, "You did. You got here by magic. Merlin, you _idiot_."

"I didn't do it on purpose!" Merlin protests, even as he realizes that Arthur is right. He was too sleepy to notice the fading ripples of magic in his blood before, but there's no other explanation.

Arthur flops onto his back and pinches the bridge of his nose with tense fingers.

" _Mer_ lin."

"I _didn't_ ," Merlin insists. "I was asleep. I don't do magic in my sleep." Actually, he's not entirely sure that's true, but Arthur doesn't need to know that. At any rate, _this _magic is hardly familiar. It's only happened the once, and that when Arthur was in danger, calling him—__

__Merlin props himself up now and scoots closer to Arthur. Arthur cracks one eye at him in calculated disapproval, but Merlin isn't cowed._ _

__"Were you having a nightmare?" he asks._ _

__"I don't have nightmares," Arthur denies tightly, heavy emphasis on each word._ _

__"A dream, then." Merlin doesn't let himself roll his eyes; he's sure now that he's right. "What were you dreaming about?"_ _

__He fears Arthur won't answer him. There's too much challenge in the prince's stare, too much pride and stubbornness. Arthur's feelings are a rough wall, not letting Merlin in, and it's impossible to guess what he's thinking._ _

__But Merlin doesn't look away. And when at last Arthur answers, there is honesty in his voice._ _

__"You," he says simply, and for a moment that is all. Then he swallows and turns his eyes upwards past Merlin, towards the canopy above. "It was... not the usual dream."_ _

__Merlin can only guess what the usual dream entails because of the deliberate way Arthur doesn't look at him. The confession sends a thrill along his skin, but he allows no hint to show on his face. Now is not the time._ _

__"What happened?" he asks softly, and wishes he could take the question back when he sees the pain that creases Arthur's brow._ _

__"Camelot was burning," Arthur whispers. "My knights had fallen, my father was dying. You were at my side at first, but I lost track of you in the chaos. I didn't know if you were alive or—" Arthur stops and swallows and tells no more of his dream. He doesn't have to._ _

__"So you called to me," Merlin finishes, and Arthur's focus returns to him at last. "Like you did before. Even though you were asleep, you called to me through magic."_ _

__"And you came," Arthur says softly. The awe in his voice makes Merlin uncomfortable, and Merlin shakes his head with rueful self-deprecation._ _

__"You're right." He tries to lighten the heavy mood smothering them. "I _am_ an idiot."_ _

__Arthur's gaze remains sharp as minutes stretch uncomfortably. But at last he shakes his head, releasing Merlin from the overwhelming weight of his gaze. One corner of his mouth twitches, barely visible even to Merlin's keen eyes, and he heaves a put-upon sigh._ _

__"Get out, Merlin," he orders, and he sounds so tired and drawn that Merlin instantly obeys. He can't shake the sensation of Arthur's eyes following him as he climbs out of the bed and crosses the cold floor on bare feet. He doesn't once turn around._ _

__"Sleep well, Sire," he murmurs as the door unlocks beneath his hand._ _

__"You too, Merlin," follows him as he steps out into the corridor._ _

____

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Merlin is shivering hard by the time he reaches the door to Gaius' workroom. His bare feet are all but numb from the cold floors of the palace and even colder flagstone of the courtyard. The night watch looked at him strangely as he passed, but they knew him on sight and didn't accost him as an intruder. There are advantages to being the prince's manservant.

He hesitates now, just outside the door. The deep darkness of night is already giving way to the first bare hints of gray morning, and though the windowless corridor is still dark Merlin knows it is no longer late but early. Gaius may be a sound sleeper, but he is an early riser. 

Hesitating on the threshold won't help if Gaius is awake, though, and Merlin wills himself to grasp the handle of the door. It doesn't open. Of course it doesn't open, it's latched from within. No one ever comes calling at this hour, and if Merlin had left the normal way he would have his key in hand. He considers knocking, but quickly rejects the idea. Why give up his perfectly reasonable hope that Gaius is still asleep and _won't_ catch Merlin sneaking home as if he's been out making trouble?

He glances left and right, reassuring himself that the hall is as empty as it feels, and then tightens his grip on the door.

" _Aliesen_ ," he whispers, warmth of magic in his chest as the lock clicks softly and the door gives beneath his push. Miraculously, the old hinges barely creak, and Merlin's bare footsteps are silent as he steps through the door.

A single candle burns on the main workbench. Gaius stands beside it, very much awake. He gapes at Merlin with a bland expression and a violently arched eyebrow, as if to convey the message that whatever reason Merlin has concocted for roaming the castle barefoot in the private hours of the night, it is not nearly so impressive as Merlin might think.

The message might be more effective if Merlin had thought to come up with an explanation. 

He pushes the door closed behind him and tries to look contrite.

"Good morning, Gaius." He holds his hands behind his back, his chin tucked to his chest. He barely notices now that he's still cold. Funny what adrenaline can do.

"Merlin." Gaius sets down a beaker of something frothy and green. "I hope you have not been getting yourself into trouble."

"No trouble," Merlin reassures, perhaps too quickly. Gaius looks skeptical. "Really, Gaius. I'm not in trouble. There was just... a minor incident."

"Merlin," Gaius says his name like an exasperated sigh and sits with a weary grunt. Merlin approaches him slowly, wary apology in his posture. He spends far too much of his time worrying Gaius as it is, he hardly needs to give the man _more_ causes for concern.

Gaius has left space on the bench beside him, and Merlin sits. Silent but contrite.

"You'd better tell me about this 'incident', then," he says. 

At least Merlin doesn't have to start from scratch. Gaius was there the first time. He saw Merlin vanish beneath his very nose and knows what happened from there. Merlin doesn't need to frame the contours of this new, confusing ability with words. Gaius already understands, insofar as anybody can, though he's still certain to disapprove.

"The most important thing you need to know," Merlin begins, as smoothly as he can, "is that it was entirely Arthur's fault."

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Merlin doesn't actually think Arthur is _the_ unluckiest prince in all of history to date, but he must come close. There's no denying he lands face first in more perilous situations than any crown prince is entitled to. He should be dead a dozen times over; _would_ have been more than once if it weren't for Merlin. Much as Merlin tries not to brag, it's indescribably satisfying to at last have Arthur take him seriously, instead of scoffing at Merlin for hanging back in a skirmish.

It's even more satisfying to watch Arthur gradually connect the dots around incidents long past.

"The Afanc," Arthur blurts, though he'd been sitting in silence a moment before. Merlin has been polishing Arthur's armor in the quiet, and not even minding that he's doing it by hand, slow and tedious as it is. Arthur has taken to keeping Merlin at his side through more and more of the day, not by express command but simply by dint of not ordering him elsewhere. Merlin never teases him about it. He's not willing to take the risk that calling Arthur out will make him _stop_.

"What about it?" Merlin asks without looking up from his task. In his peripheral vision, he sees Arthur standing near the window, ignoring the parchments and scrolls scattered across the table. 

"When I killed it," Arthur says, moving abruptly. He rounds the table with long strides. "It wasn't me at all. That was no natural fire." 

"It was perfectly natural fire," Merlin retorts, rubbing harder at a tarnishing link of mail. An impudent smile edges across his face. "I just gave it a little extra push."

Arthur huffs noisily and then drops to sit beside Merlin on the floor. His eyes follow the steady movements of Merlin's hands. He's positioned himself closer than necessary, close enough that the strictest propriety would raise a disapproving eyebrow. Merlin can feel Arthur's warmth against his side, and can't help smiling wider. 

"What are you grinning at?" Arthur asks, leaning in to jostle Merlin with his shoulder. 

"Nothing," Merlin lies. He won't point out Arthur's unconscious proximity. It's one more thing he fears Arthur will _stop_ if Merlin calls attention to it, especially in moments like this. Quiet and strangely intimate, when the tension between them is almost invisible and there is only easy warmth in the air. Arthur touches him almost constantly now, especially when they're alone, though he's made it clear he has no intention of asking Merlin to his bed. He's had to send Merlin _from_ his bed more than once, in fact. Three times now, Merlin has gone to sleep in his own small room and woken in Arthur's chambers, in Arthur's bed, once even in Arthur's arms. 

But three times is enough for the awkwardness to fade and leave only muted exasperation in its wake. Merlin thinks he is learning to control this strange new ability, at least enough to prevent himself succumbing to it inadvertently. Several days have passed since the last incident. Merlin doesn't try to tell himself it won't happen again, but at least it's not a nightly occurrence. There are far too many ways for such happenings to go wrong in a place like Camelot, and Merlin isn't eager to get himself burned as a witch.

"How many times, Merlin?" Arthur asks softly, sounding more serious than Merlin expects. He raises his eyes and finds Arthur peering at him with a somber, piercing expression. "How many times have you saved Camelot with no one the wiser?"

"Camelot?" Merlin blinks. "I don't know. A few times I guess? _You_ , on the other hand," he shrugs eloquently and pretends to match Arthur's serious expression. "I'm afraid I've lost count." 

Arthur's somber face darkens into an unamused scowl. His hand curls around Merlin's shoulder, and for a moment all Merlin registers is the heat of Arthur's fingers. Then Arthur shoves him hard, and Merlin squawks, dropping the chain mail in an unsuccessful effort to regain his balance. He falls without dignity, landing in a sprawl and glaring up at Arthur.

Arthur's not scowling now. He's grinning, like he's just won something with wit and strategy, and not by behaving like a ridiculous child. Merlin glares harder, but that just makes Arthur's grin widen with triumph.

Arthur doesn't offer him a hand up as he stands and turns his back on Merlin, returning to the affairs of state lying neglected on the table. Merlin rights himself, irritation already fading. He is suddenly, brightly aware of his bond with Arthur. His breath catches at the pulse of fondness emanating from the prince and filling Merlin's chest with warmth.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Merlin occasionally forgets that magic is not the only danger Arthur faces. With all the times he's had to save the prince from peril by enchantment, it's no wonder he's developed something of a blind spot for more mundane threats.

Avalanches, for example. On patrol away from Camelot, tailed by an impressive squadron of well armed knights—it never occurred to Merlin to worry that he and Arthur might become separated from the others and have to worry about being crushed by falling rocks.

The noise reaches them before the hurtling stones do.

"Merlin." Arthur's voice is clipped and anxious as both of them stare up the steep incline towards their oncoming doom. "Now would be an excellent time for that new trick of yours."

Merlin tries. He tugs at the intricate, twining knot of soul magic in his chest and _tries_.

Nothing happens.

"Get us out of here, Merlin," Arthur commands with forced calm.

Merlin tries again. He and Arthur are still standing at the base of too wide a cliff. If they started running two minutes ago, they would still never reach safety in time. 

" _Mer_ lin," Arthur snaps.

"I _can't_!" Merlin snaps back. "I don't think it works that way!" 

There's no more time. Merlin raises a hand and summons different, more familiar magic to his fingers. Dust and rubble rise and clatter, wind swirls violently, and he is glad Arthur is close. He grabs Arthur's hand, though he doesn't need to for the spell to work, and the leather of Arthur's glove is warm against his palm. The barrier Merlin has drawn around them crackles and shivers as it is buffeted by crashing boulders. Arthur flinches almost imperceptibly, and Merlin grasps his hand more tightly, offering wordless reassurance as he keeps his focus where it is needed. Magic pulses through his blood and he would know his eyes are glowing even if he couldn't feel Arthur staring at his face.

It seems an eternity before the rumbling chaos quiets and the terrain falls still. Even with the aid of magic, it is delicate work extricating themselves from beneath heavily strewn stone and rubble. Dust swirls and chokes them, but they dig themselves out with slow caution. Arthur leaves his sword and one vambrace somewhere below. Merlin doesn't remember losing his scarf, but it's gone by the time they emerge to daylight.

Small prices to pay for surviving unscathed.

"Let's _not_ do that again," Arthur announces brightly, and Merlin readily agrees.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

Casual as Arthur has always been with physical contact, it's still only a matter of time before someone notices the lack of proper boundaries between prince and manservant. Merlin has been careless. All the times he's let himself be greedy, all the times he's held his tongue rather than call Arthur's attention to the hand at Merlin's back or the brush of fingers at his wrist—Merlin knows they're playing a dangerous game, but he has refused to acknowledge the stakes.

They're lucky it's Gwen who notices first. Or perhaps it's not luck at all; Gwen always sees more than anyone else. 

Arthur doesn't notice Gwen as she falters at the door. Even if he realized they had an audience, he might not take his hand away from where it's curled around the nape of Merlin's neck. He would first have to notice where his hand is—how close he is standing—and Merlin suspects he is oblivious to both of these things.

Merlin should alert Arthur that they're not alone, but his voice sticks in his throat. Gwen is already drawing back, pulling the door quietly closed behind her, and all the response Merlin manages is a stiffening of his spine as he watches her go. 

His stillness draws Arthur's worried eyes.

"What is it?" Arthur asks, wondering what's wrong—perhaps confused at the new tension in Merlin's body, or perhaps sensing his unease on a deeper level. He misinterprets, realizes he is touching Merlin and yanks his hand back sharply. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"It's all right," Merlin forces a smile, forces his heart to calm. He tries to project reassurance through their shared connection, and it must succeed a little. Arthur's face is losing its look of pinched concern. "It's more than all right. But the door..." 

The door isn't locked. Anyone could walk in and see. He still can't bring himself to mention Gwen, and he feels guilty for that. But she saw so little, Merlin rationalizes. Perhaps it seemed harmless to her eyes; perhaps she doesn't suspect anything amiss.

These are useless rationalizations, Merlin is all too aware. Gwen understood perfectly, or she would be here now, politely interrupting, on whatever errand brought her.

It's not until hours later that Merlin finds Gwen. He'd have gone after her sooner if his chores hadn't kept him busy until sundown, and even now he has only a short respite before he will be expected back in Arthur's chambers. It's a never ending battle, cleaning up after the crown prince of Camelot. 

Merlin doesn't know what to expect when he finds Guinevere. She is alone in Morgana's chambers, gathering the next day's laundry, taking no notice of him at first. He has to cough to get her attention, and even then it's a long moment before she sets down her basket and turns to face him. In that moment of waiting, he has all the time he needs to imagine the worst.

But when she meets his eyes she doesn't look distraught, or even all that upset.

Hers is a quieter sadness, and it cuts Merlin to the heart. He's always admired her dignity, but it almost hurts to look at her now. He can't fathom maintaining such perfect calm in her place.

At the very least he expects anger, and he has no idea how to react to the soft, wounded look she gives him instead. He flounders, searching for words, for _anything_ he can say to explain. He couldn't tell her the entire story even if he wanted to. Too many secrets are not his own. But she deserves more than his gawping, guilty stare, if only he could think of something to offer.

"I'm sorry," he says at last, and the words are little more than a whisper.

A fresh confusion draws her brows down, and she shakes her head, taking two steps toward him and stopping.

"Merlin, don't be absurd. What can you possibly have to apologize for?" 

Merlin doesn't understand, and very nearly convinces himself he's gotten this wrong. What if Gwen _doesn't_ know, and Merlin is right in the middle of putting his foot in it?

But one look into Gwen's eyes and he knows they are understanding each other all too well. 

"You care for him," Merlin says helplessly, feeling small and guilty. 

"I broke his heart."

Merlin doesn't have an answer for that. He knows. He doesn't blame her—he's not hypocrite enough to condemn someone for the way they feel—but he was _there_. He saw the wounded look on Arthur's face at the obvious feeling between Lancelot and Guinevere. He has watched Arthur twist himself into knots ever since, and nothing he says now can make any of it right. 

So he says nothing, and Guinevere approaches him with a soft, sad smile.

"I'm glad he has you, Merlin." She says it quietly. 

Merlin doesn't mean to respond, and his own next words surprise him perhaps even more than they surprise Guinevere.

"I'm not sure he does." He blinks. Gwen's eyes narrow, startled confusion, and she shakes her head.

"What?" she asks softly.

Merlin opens his mouth, but it takes him a couple of tries to make the words come. His insides feel too tight all of a sudden, his face too warm and his limbs twitchy. For such an oblique confession, it leaves him feeling exposed. He trusts Gwen—he adores her—but he doesn't enjoy feeling exposed like this. It takes a feat of willpower to answer instead of scurrying like a coward from the room.

"It's not... That is, of course he does. Have me, I mean." Merlin blushes and drops his eyes, and can't quite look at her as he confesses, "I'm just not sure he wants to _keep_ me." He's reasonably sure he's still smiling, but the expression has frozen awkwardly on his face. He hates the way saying the words aloud makes his chest feel tight and wrong, every nagging uncertainty dragged unceremoniously into the light.

"Oh, Merlin." 

Gwen's arms wrap around him, and Merlin startles, his whole body tense with surprise. She doesn't release him when he goes taut in her arms. She just clings tighter, until Merlin finally relaxes and returns the embrace. Guinevere is sweet and soft, and impossibly kind, and Merlin will never admit just how grateful he is.

Her breath ruffles his hair when she asks, "Do you love him?"

"Yes," he answers without thinking, and freezes. His pulse rings in his ears as his brain catches up with his mouth.

He's never allowed himself to consider the question so directly. His feelings for Arthur carry too much weight; they terrify him. They take up too much space in his chest and leave him wide open and vulnerable. His destiny has always been tied to Arthur—and perhaps his heart, too—but acknowledging it in words is different. 

Words have power; Merlin knows this better than most.

He could never have walked away, but he thinks maybe he could've born the possibility of Arthur not wanting him. It would have hurt somewhere deep and permanent, but he'd have learned to cope. It's what he always does. He copes. He moves on. He protects Arthur and tells himself it's enough.

But now that Gwen has spoken the words—now that Merlin has confessed to their truth—he knows better.

Gwen must sense his panic, because she loosens her arms and draws back. Her hands settle warm at his shoulders, her brow furrowed as she tilts her head to look up at him with open concern. 

"What's wrong?" she asks, fingers tightening on his sleeves. 

"Nothing." Merlin's bluster is transparent; of course she sees through it.

"Merlin," she chides gently, the shadow of sadness creeping forward anew. "I saw you today. I saw the way he looked at you." 

Merlin can't respond to that. He doesn't know how to explain that whatever she saw, it's not enough. 

"Arthur is a good man," Gwen insists. "He would not toy with you. If he knows how you feel—"

Footsteps in the corridor put an abrupt stop to Gwen's reassurances. They part from each other enough to avoid questions, just in time for Morgana to sweep into the room. She looks tired and unhappy, as she always does of late.

"Hello, Merlin." She scrounges a smile from somewhere, apparently unsurprised at his presence. The smile Merlin offers in return is just as weak, but he doubts Morgana notices. She dismisses him kindly, and Merlin bows as he escapes her chambers. At the door, he throws a final look over his shoulder and finds Gwen watching him.

He can read nothing at all in her cryptic expression.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

The conversation with Gwen lingers stubbornly in Merlin's thoughts as he finishes his chores and helps Arthur prepare for sleep. His own admission echoes too sharply, twisted back on itself by her final words. _If he knows how you feel_...

Merlin has been operating under the assumption that Arthur _does_ know. The knotting together of their souls, a bond so overwhelming and invasive at first, has settled to something intimate and familiar. They can sense each other almost constantly now. It takes conscious effort to guard himself from Arthur's awareness, and it's been weeks since he bothered to try. Arthur _must_ know, perhaps more acutely than Merlin himself, how Merlin feels.

But still he holds back. Still he draws away when he realizes his hands have strayed to Merlin, a repetitive but complicated dance. 

For the first time, it occurs to Merlin that perhaps knowing is not enough. 

Perhaps what holds Arthur back is not fear of what he himself might do, but fear that, despite what he feels, Merlin doesn't really want this. Perhaps Arthur doesn't realize that Merlin's offer stands wide open for him, an invitation to take what he will because Merlin will give it eagerly. Perhaps they are both too stubborn for their own good.

He catches Arthur watching him tend the hearth, and the raw look of want in his eyes—shuttered in an instant when he realizes Merlin has caught him out—confirms everything more eloquently than a spoken confession. Merlin is sharply aware of Arthur's eyes on him as he tidies and fusses, as he gathers tomorrow's laundry and closes the window against the cooling breeze outside the palace walls. 

Something is different tonight, and Merlin knows he's not the only one sensing it.

"You may go, Merlin," Arthur says as Merlin latches the window. He is ordering Merlin away gently, but dismissing him just the same. Merlin squashes down the urge to offer some goading retort. He shouldn't be irritated at Arthur for being stubborn and good, for trying not to subject Merlin to his own selfish wants. But it makes him want to knock Arthur's head against something solid and tell him to stop being an idiot.

He forces his frustration down and his voice calm.

"I'd rather stay."

Arthur's head snaps up, his gaze quick and sharp and locking on Merlin with open surprise.

"Arthur," Merlin chides. He tries to look and sound confident and is very nearly successful. "Please. Don't pretend _you_ aren't thinking it, too."

A guilty pause echoes through the room, but Arthur doesn't deny the accusation. They both recognize the tension hanging in the air between them. They've been circling each other for weeks, nearer and nearer. Eventually, someone has to give ground.

Arthur is the only one with ground left to give. Merlin has only himself to offer, and he is already Arthur's, body and soul. He thought Arthur understood that. He's determined to make him understand now, and the magic in his chest gives a kick of anticipation at the first glint of hunger in Arthur's eyes. Arthur still hasn't moved towards Merlin; he still clings stubbornly to the illusion of his noble intentions.

But his hands have clenched into white-knuckled fists at his sides, and Merlin can feel just how much Arthur's stillness costs.

The door is unlocked behind him, but Merlin remedies that problem with a thought. He doesn't think himself capable of turning his back on Arthur long enough to see to the task by hand, nor does he miss the way Arthur's expression darkens and warms at the careless display of power. There is something unmistakably possessive in Arthur's expression, and Merlin's blood thrills at the sight. It's dangerous to hope, but he can't help it when Arthur is looking at him like that.

He approaches Arthur with cautious steps, and Arthur's posture stiffens as he draws near. Merlin's heartbeat is a confused whirlwind of eagerness and apprehension, and he doesn't know what Arthur will do. Merlin wants this—there is no question of that now—but Arthur has already rejected him once. What if he refuses, obstinate even now?

Merlin stands before his prince, too close for any mistake as to his intentions. He leans closer still, and Arthur's eyes drift shut an instant before Merlin's do. Arthur doesn't move to touch, though, as Merlin offers a cautious kiss. Arthur's lips are soft and barely parted, and Merlin's pulse speeds dangerously when Arthur doesn't pull away—when Arthur allows the kiss to happen, slow and gentle and determined.

Arthur doesn't respond, doesn't participate, but the connection between them is wide open. Merlin knows Arthur is on the verge of a sharp precipice. He knows this is the moment everything changes. Arthur will surrender or he will send Merlin away, and whatever he chooses, they will never return to the helpless circles they've been treading around each other. There is no going back this time from the question Merlin has posed without words. 

When Merlin draws back, his own hands are still at his sides. He finds Arthur's eyes still closed, Arthur's entire body a tightly-strung bowstring on the verge of release. His feelings, raw and sharp and open to Merlin like a torrent, give no indication of what he will decide.

Arthur's eyes, when they open, pierce Merlin through and stop his breath in his chest. They make the rest of the natural world seem pale and grim.

"Arthur." Merlin raises one hand to press his palm over Arthur's heart. " _Please_."

Perhaps Merlin's touch is the final straw, or perhaps it's the pleading in his tone. In the span of a heartbeat, Arthur transforms from terrible stillness to helpless motion. His hands frame Merlin's face, careful but commanding, and he claims a second kiss, different in every possible way from the first. Here is fierce heat, possessive hunger, the inadvertent sting of teeth as Arthur crushes Merlin's mouth beneath his.

Merlin's hand fists in the fabric of Arthur's tunic. He parts his lips wider for Arthur's tongue, for a deeper kiss, and shivers as one of Arthur's hands slides back to cup his skull. His fingers thread through Merlin's hair with surprising gentleness, vivid counterpoint to the rough intensity of his mouth. Arthur's other hand slides lower, trailing a heated path to the small of Merlin's back and using the extra leverage to pull him flush against Arthur's chest.

Merlin wraps his own free arm around Arthur's shoulder, clinging harder than he intends to. He can't coax his other hand to unclench from Arthur's shirt.

Eventually Arthur relinquishes the kiss, parting for breath though he doesn't let Merlin go. The hand cupping Merlin's skull is warm, thumb stroking idly just behind his ear, and Arthur exhales warmly. His eyes are still closed as he tilts Merlin's head towards him and presses their foreheads together.

"You should still go," Arthur murmurs, reluctant steel in his voice.

"Do you want me to?" Merlin asks, and he is not teasing now. His question is genuine, because he has to be sure. If Arthur really wants Merlin to leave, he will, though it might just kill him to go.

But Arthur straightens, then opens his eyes. He regards Merlin with unaccustomed openness, and the unguarded expression makes him look more vulnerable than Merlin has ever seen him. He is taking the time to consider his answer, and Merlin hates the uncertainty. He hates that the chaos of Arthur's emotions makes it impossible to predict what he will say.

But at last Arthur's expression clears. There is nothing of resignation in his face.

"I want you to stay," he admits, and Merlin grins, wide and fierce with relief.

The third kiss is as gentle as the first, as eager as the second. A middle ground of desire and control. Arthur has given in, but there is still something cautious in his touch—as though he is consciously tempering more forceful instincts. Perhaps Merlin _should_ be afraid. But he has never been any good at fearing his prince, and as Arthur undresses him, he knows he can't hope to start now.

He thrills at the slide of naked skin when Arthur shoves him unceremoniously down on the bed. There is little art between them; they're both far too frantic. They've put this off too long. Merlin arches beneath Arthur's weight, greedy for friction, and Arthur curses and curls over him, burying his face against Merlin's neck. Soft kisses along his throat turn sharper, turn to deliberate, teasing bites, and Merlin throws his head back on a gasp. Arthur's hands are strong, holding him down, and heat curls low and sharp in Merlin's gut.

He wonders if Arthur intends to fuck him. He wonders if he has it in him to _let_ Arthur fuck him.

But Arthur goes still above him, sensing Merlin's unease—not fear, it's _not_ fear, whatever Arthur might think—and his lips brush Merlin's ear with the softest murmur.

"Easy, Merlin." He nuzzles at Merlin's throat. "It's all right. I've got you."

Then he takes Merlin in hand, adjusting with impressive ease to the unfamiliar angle—Merlin can't imagine Arthur has ever had his hand on someone else's cock before—and gives a slow, firm stroke. The touch drags a noisy groan from Merlin's throat, and he arches into the touch, aching for more.

He can't last long with Arthur's hand on him like this. Bare moments later he comes with a cry, overwhelmed, brain shutting down at the rush of heat and pure sensation.

By the time he comes back down, Arthur has sought and found his own release, spilling his climax over his own hand. Merlin glares and smacks him in the shoulder, not bothering to mask his irritation.

"I can't believe you didn't let _me_ do that," he huffs righteously. "Impatient sod."

The honest, vulnerable expression on Arthur's face brightens into a startled laugh, and he shifts off of Merlin, flopping over onto his side. He's wiped his hand on the bedclothes with the carelessness of a prince who knows he won't have to clean up the mess. One elbow squashing the pillows, head propped on his hand, Arthur grins down at Merlin, a look of stupid satisfaction on his face.

"Next time, all right?" Arthur asks, then leans down to kiss him. Merlin stops him with a firm hand against his chest, forcing his own expression serious despite the petulant surprise on Arthur's face.

"Promise?" Merlin lets only the barest hint of teasing creep into the words. Arthur's gaze flashes white hot, and his weight against Merlin's palm increases deliberately.

"On my honor," Arthur breathes. 

This time, when he presses closer, Merlin lets him come.

\- — - — - — - — - — -

A week passes with startling speed, humid days coalescing into cool nights. Arthur and Merlin are cautious at every turn, wary of discovery, but Merlin quickly becomes accustomed to waking in Arthur's bed. Gaius gives him a worried look after the first night, a more pointed one after the second. But he never asks, perhaps because they're all safer if he can claim not to know.

Merlin is relieved to discover that open affection changes Arthur very little. He is still irritable in the mornings, and an unreasonable prat much of the rest of the time, and strong and noble and fearless every waking moment of his life. He is still _Arthur_ , still exasperating and imperfect, and Merlin can only adore him for it. 

Arthur no longer tries to send him away as the castle grows quiet. He is territorial warmth drawing Merlin to his bed, and Merlin always follows without hesitation. 

Today, the sky is still gray with daylight, the afternoon barely spent. Merlin is meant to be with Gaius, sorting and hanging herbs to dry from the workroom ceiling. He was not meant to finish so soon or return to Arthur's chambers this early, and it's little surprise that Arthur's rooms are empty at this hour. There are dozens of duties for the crown prince to see to, and no reason at all for Merlin to worry. 

He's _not_ worried exactly. He senses no danger, whatever Arthur is doing. But Merlin can't ignore the nagging tug of his own curiosity, mingling with an unmuted desire to be at Arthur's side.

He belongs there; it's nothing new. But the urge has grown stronger with time, and Merlin doesn't try to resist now. He follows the tug of feeling in his chest that will lead him to Arthur, surprised when it leads him halfway across the citadel and up to the northern ramparts. A sulky drizzle greets him when he steps outside, but he ignores the damp and continues forward.

Eavesdropping is an unkind habit, but one Merlin has never managed to break. He hangs back when he finds Arthur and Guinevere standing at the wall in deep conversation. They're too far away to be overheard, but that is little impediment to Merlin. He slips into the shadow of an arched doorway, and with only a nudge of magic, subtle and easy, and he can make out their words. 

He can tell from the reluctant intensity in Arthur's tone that he's missed something important.

"You can understand the need for absolute discretion, of course." Arthur sounds deeply uncomfortable, but determined. "I would not have burdened you, but you of all people have a right to know."

Merlin can surmise easily enough what (who) they are discussing, and embarrassment draws a flush to his cheeks. He should not be listening. 

He doesn't for a moment consider stopping.

"Arthur." Gwen sets a hand to Arthur's arm, gentle and calm. 

"I can't tell you everything," Arthur covers her hand with his, and Merlin feels a pulse of jealousy. He lets the feeling slide from him, unfair and irrational as it is. This is not an assignation he has stumbled onto; it is a confession, and a difficult one at that. Arthur is clearly trying to explain, with difficulty as he has so many secrets to navigate and avoid. "The situation is... complicated."

"Arthur, enough," Gwen protests softly and pulls her hand from beneath his, pressing her palm to his cheek. "You owe me neither explanation nor apology. Even if you did..." She smiles a sad, tender smile, "A man cannot _choose_ whom he loves."

"Love?" Arthur gapes, eyes widening in a way that would be comical if it weren't twisting Merlin's heart unpleasantly in his chest. But Gwen's expression burns pointedly, chin cocking in defiance as she meets the prince's eyes.

"Yes, Arthur. Love. Or will you stand there and deny it, after everything you've told me?"

Arthur flinches, but doesn't retreat from the hand she still holds to his cheek.

"No," he says. "I cannot deny it. I _will not_ deny it." Relief swells painfully in Merlin's chest, but either Arthur doesn't feel it or he is too distracted to notice. The suspicious, searching glance Merlin half expects doesn't come. 

Gwen smiles again, unguarded and warm. When she tugs Arthur down towards her, he goes, and Merlin watches Gwen rise onto her toes in order to press a kiss to Arthur's temple. 

"Be good to him, my lord," she whispers. "And be careful."

Merlin doesn't stay for Arthur's response. He's listened too long already. This moment is not meant for him, and he retreats unnoticed, as silently as he arrived.


	11. Epilogue

Arthur will always hate lying to his father. 

It is not a habit that grows more palatable with time and repetition. If anything, the flavor of betrayal grows more acrid on his tongue as he finds himself keeping more and more secrets. He supposes it started with the druid boy, Mordred, but that transgression seems almost trivial now.

The secrets he share with Merlin carry a different weight, heavier and shaper and a thousand times worse. Deceptions clog his every interaction with the king now. And while Arthur understands the necessity of all these omissions and half truths and outright lies, he will never be comfortable with them.

He will live with them. He knows, because he will never betray Merlin. He would sooner lay his own neck on the executioner's block; it would be easier to die himself than to have Merlin taken from him. Arthur will keep Merlin's secrets, because the alternative is unthinkable. 

But it's difficult to reconcile his life, his position as crown prince, with the fact that with every breath he is committing treason. It's even more difficult to look his father in the eye when lies are all Arthur dares to speak.

Perhaps that is why he confides in Morgana what little he can. She's the only person Arthur has ever seen challenge Uther about his laws on magic, and Arthur thinks she will understand. 

He still has to brace himself to say the words, in the quiet privacy of his own chambers. Because even the words are treason. 

"My father is wrong."

Candlelight gives a softened look of shadows to Arthur's chambers. Morgana's fingers clasp together, thin and pale on the tabletop, and she watches him with an unfamiliar wariness. There are tired shadows beneath her eyes. Despite Gaius' remedies, her sleep has been even more troubled than usual, and Arthur aches watching her withdraw further into herself with each passing day. 

He resents the caution in her gaze, though he doesn't understand its source. He will ask her one day, and pray she trusts him enough to answer.

"Wrong about what?" Morgana asks, face unreadable beneath the cool caution.

"Magic is not evil." His pulse speeds faster as the words leave his mouth. "Dangerous, yes. But not evil." 

Morgana's eyes widen, but she doesn't speak. Her silence makes Arthur hesitate, but he forces himself to continue.

"Perhaps one day..."

It's as close as he can come to speaking the words. _Perhaps when I am king_.

When Arthur is king, a great many things will be different. 

Morgana's fingers are startling and cool on his wrist, and now more than ever Arthur wishes he could read the strange expression, the unfamiliar shadow in her eyes. She squeezes his wrist tightly, but she doesn't speak. Whatever she is trying to communicate without words, Arthur is desperate to understand. He feels strangely helpless at failing so spectacularly.

She takes pity on him and offers a soft, confusing smile. 

"Perhaps one day," she agrees, echoing him gently.

Then she takes her hand back and stands, offering him an insincere curtsey and a more genuine smile. 

"It's late," she says, and then, "Good night, Arthur." Then she is gone, skirts sweeping behind her as she vanishes through the door with gliding steps. 

Merlin appears an instant later, his timing far too convenient. He steps into the room bare seconds after Morgana's retreat. His eyes sparkle with something very much like approval, and Arthur rolls his eyes with pointed exasperation. He suspects a heavy door is no impediment to Merlin's hearing, no matter how low the tones of a conversation. The sheepish hint of apology in Merlin's smile is more than enough confirmation.

"Didn't your mother teach you that eavesdropping is rude?" Arthur chides. He stands from the table as Merlin closes and latches the door. There are a dozen instincts beneath his skin that crave nothing but Merlin within reach, and as always it requires conscious effort to stand his ground and make Merlin come to him.

"My mother found me intractable." Merlin smiles wider and moves farther into the room, following Arthur's wordless summons or perhaps simply responding to the same instincts Arthur is resisting.

"I very much doubt that," Arthur snorts. He has met Hunith. He has seen mother and son together, and he can picture all too well the way Merlin must have been as a child, kind and protective and constantly striving to please. Oblivious, perhaps, and prone to a certain inevitable carelessness. So really, much the same as he is now.

Merlin hesitates only once he has reached Arthur's side, and for a long moment he holds unexpectedly quiet. Arthur looks at him and finds a surprising intensity, a look so heavy he doesn't know what to make of it.

"I know how difficult it was for you, saying those things to Morgana." Merlin's tone carries an unfamiliar somberness, as he shifts closer into Arthur's space. "But you were right to do it. She needed to hear them."

"Did she?" Confusion knits Arthur's brow, and skepticism colors his voice. 

"More than you can possibly realize." Merlin doesn't elaborate. He lets his cryptic words hang in the air between them, leaving Arthur to wonder why it suddenly matters so much. He wants to understand, and he feels as though he is missing something vital and obvious.

"Why?" he asks helplessly.

But instead of answering, Merlin cups his jaw and kisses Arthur, sound and sure. Warmth rises in Arthur's chest, the glow of Merlin's affection twining through him like a tangible force, and he allows himself to be distracted. There will be time enough for questions later. Tonight there is the shiver of magic between them, deep and familiar, as Arthur frames Merlin's face with his hands.

Merlin smiles against his mouth, and his fingers ghost beneath Arthur's tunic to trace eager patterns along warm skin.

They part for air eventually, reluctantly.

"Come to bed, Arthur," Merlin murmurs, as he takes Arthur's hands and leads the way.

**Author's Note:**

> I also hang out **[over on Dreamwidth](https://dreamlittleyo.dreamwidth.org/)** if that is a place anyone still goes. In the rare instance I'm inspired to post things that aren't fic--or participate in wider fandom happenings--that's where you'll find me. :D


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